


Summer Storm

by SaintEpithet



Series: Uncharted Horizons [1]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Adventure, Best Friends, Blackhaven, BrOTP Thoros & Beric, Bromance, Canon Divergence, Castle Black, Chivalry, Coming of Age, Dorne, Friendship, Fruitless Ho Yay, Gen, Highgarden, Iron Islands (Westeros), King's Landing, Knight, Lannisport, Lore Exploration, Male Friendship, May/December Bromance, Medieval Accuracy, Mentor & Protégé, Nightfort, No Romance, Non-Sexual Intimacy, Nostalgia, Pre-Canon, Prequel, Riverlands (Westeros), Rum for the Red God, Some Humor, Stormlands (Westeros), Sunset Sea, Taking the Faith of the Seven up to Eleven, The North (Westeros), The Reach (Westeros), The Vale of Arryn, Tourist Guide to the Seven Kingdoms, Tournaments, Westerlands (Westeros), Whirlwind Bromance, White Harbor, Worldbuilding
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-13
Updated: 2018-07-11
Packaged: 2019-01-16 15:41:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 40
Words: 221,922
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12345663
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SaintEpithet/pseuds/SaintEpithet
Summary: In the peaceful years of Robert I. Baratheon's reign, Beric, recently knighted, leaves the nest of Blackhaven to seek fame and fortune across Westeros. Between the tourneys and tales around campfires, he learns that not all that glimmers is gold. While some knights are less shiny than their armor suggests, crackling facades also reveal true friendship and honor where Beric didn't expect it.





	1. Summer Son

**Author's Note:**

> [](https://imgur.com/HLYSd0o)  
>  Set about 3 - 4 years before the canon events take place and leading up to an AU sequel. Subtle AU/canon divergence. Main characters are Beric and Thoros, all other tagged characters have a significant role (Renly and Robert from chapter 6/7 on, Loras from chapter 13 on, Anguy from chapter 1 on). Canon characters who only show up briefly are not tagged.
> 
>  **Travel Guide:** Stormlands (Chapters 1, 5, 6, 15, 26), The Vale (Chapters 3, 4, 23, 24), Crownlands (Chapters 2, 7, 8, 25, 35, 38, 40), The North (Chapters 9 - 12), The Reach (Chapters 13, 14, 16, 38, 39), Iron Islands (Chapters 16 - 20), Westerlands (Chapters 21, 22), Riverlands (Chapter 28 - 31) and Dorne (Chapter 33, 34)
> 
> Thanks to my beta, [KtrenalWinterheart](https://archiveofourown.org/users/KtrenalWinterheart/profile).

The clouds stacked high and higher in the distance, an ephemeral white twin castle of Blackhaven in the sky above the Sea of Dorne. A storm was coming, one of those rare summer storms that would rage down at the coast and bring nothing but a mild breeze to the Red Mountains. There was always a breeze up here on the battlements and this one would be no different.

It was not the storm that heralded unwelcome news. It was the familiar shape of Maester Jeon, slowly scuffling closer from the stairwell in the tower, the old man's sun-bleached robes fluttering in the wind around his scrawny body like rags of a ghost. That the maester had made the way up here could only mean one thing. A raven from the Citadel, returning with a scroll that held answers Lord Ossyn expected, but did not look forward to reading. Seeing the words, black ink on brown parchment, would do no justice to the inner turmoil they meant.

The faint clinking of the maester's chain stopped when the old man reached him, but Lord Ossyn did not look up. His gaze absently followed the bustle down in the yard and finally lingered outside the armorer's gate. He didn't need to see the scroll to know what it said. The answer had been written on Maester Jeon's face and Lord Ossyn had seen it the moment the old man had stepped through the arch.

“How long?” Lord Ossyn asked, firm and composed. Jeon didn't like being the bearer of bad news any more than other men. There was no need to dance around the subject, go through the motions of being told that a raven had come, who had sent it in response to what request.

“The scroll does not say,” Jeon replied, regret in his voice. “But Maester Ervyn confirmed the suspicions and my rough estimate of...”

“How long?” Lord Ossyn repeated, this time more demanding.

The maester hesitated briefly. “You will not see another winter,” he then said. “Three years, maybe four. I can alleviate the symptoms and ask Maester Ervyn for...”

“Good,” Lord Ossyn interrupted. “What do you need?” The maester was about to reply, but Lord Ossyn now looked to him and stopped him with a brief wave of his hand. “Just get it,” he said. “Keep anything out of the ordinary in your chambers. I would not burden anyone else with this knowledge.”

Maester Jeon nodded, though he looked doubtful. “As you wish, my lord,” he slowly gave back. “Though I cannot agree with this decision. You should let your family know. At least tell Lady Laenah. She has a right to...”

Lord Ossyn's glance fell back down to the courtyard, far below them. “I will,” he said. “I know I cannot hide my illness forever. But you know my wife. She has a gentle heart. If this is my last summer, I would not want to cast the shadow of knowing this over her mind.”

The maester nodded and his gaze followed his lord's to the yard and the young man standing outside the gates of the armory, talking to Blackhaven's armorer and his apprentice. “What about Beric?” Maester Jeon asked.

Lord Ossyn did not reply. He knew what Jeon was trying to tell him and he knew the maester was right about what had not yet been said. This was his heir, his only child, and he had to accept that a man was now standing where there had been only a boy when summer began. Beric had grown up so fast. He was almost as tall as his father now and already surpassed his skill with lance and with sword.

But when Lord Ossyn looked at him, a part of him still saw his little boy. Recalled the early days of the summer, when he watched Beric play in the courtyard, when they had all the time in the world. The summer wind caught in his hair, as gold as his mother's, his face still sprinkled with freckles, his smile as bright as the sun. Lord Ossyn could still hear the ringing of laughter when his son came home from adventures, exploring the caves and springs of the Red Mountains. Remembered when they rode down to the banks of the Wyl, days spent fishing and talking, father to son. He could still see Beric's blue eyes full of wonder when Maester Jeon sat with him by the hearth in the evenings, reading the tales of heroes and the legends of old.

Now, Beric's hair was short, he had outgrown the freckles and he sought his own adventures out in the Stormlands. Any man would have seen nothing but a young knight now, but Lord Ossyn knew his son still had the heart of a dreamer.

He sighed and stepped away from the wall, then turned back to the maester. “It has only been six months since he got knighted. There is no rush to cut the sweet life short with my burdens just yet.”

The maester thoughtfully regarded his lord. “I understand your wish to not rush matters, but what will he learn from that sweet life? It will only be harder for him if you leave him in the dark. I strongly advise you to reconsider and...”

“You have taught him for years and will continue to do so,” Lord Ossyn cut him off, now somewhat harsher in tone. “This is my only son. He has given me nothing but pride and joy. He does not deserve to have his youth cut this short.”

He paused. What did the old man know of his reasons? Jeon had left both his Northern accent and his best years in the Citadel; he had never desired or lived a 'sweet life' of his own. Maesters fathered no children either, so how could he think Jeon would understand a father's concern? Lord Ossyn took a deep breath, then continued, now softer: “My own father died when I was Beric's age. I was only thirteen when I was told I would never have the freedom my friends would have. I grew up in the shadow of a dying father while they traveled the realms and tasted the world.”

His glance drifted back to the courtyard, to the son he had to let go, no matter how heavy the thought weighed upon his heart. “If I have only this one summer left, I will let him have it,” he quietly added. “I will let him live, let him learn, let him make his own mistakes.”

The maester nodded and wanted to speak, but Lord Ossyn shook his head. “I know, I know, he will need to face the responsibilities awaiting. But not yet. There'll be a better day to tell him in those three or four years I have. Saying it now would just darken his sun.”

Maester Jeon lowered his gaze, understanding none of his words would change his lord's mind. “I've grown up by the sea,” he said with a sigh. “And I know it's never worth waiting for a change in the weather. But it is your choice and all I can do is hope the rain won't come too late.”

Lord Ossyn's gaze drifted out to the clouds as he slowly began wandering back to the stairwell. “Aye, I will tell him when the rain comes,” he absently replied. “And we both know it always does.”

 

﴾ _____________________________________________________________________________________ ﴿

 

“Don't tell me you're thinking about new armor again.”

Anguy stopped a few steps behind Beric, impatiently tapping his foot to get his friend's attention. Beric sighed, though amused, and ended the conversation with the armorer, then turned around.

“No, I don't. I was just...” He paused when he saw the wine bottles sticking out of the saddle bags of the horse Anguy held by the reins. “I take it the long ride paid out once again?” he asked, though he already knew the answer. It was rare Anguy did not win when he went to prove his skill with the bow and if someone had managed to beat him, by now Beric would know.

Anguy grinned and padded the saddle bag. “And that's just a small part of my spoils,” he confirmed. “The other spoils are probably dreaming of my return in their beds.” He regarded Beric for a moment, pretending to be serious, as if he sized him up for a fight. “Maybe I should get myself some shiny new armor and see how I measure up against you next.”

Beric laughed and shook his head. “We already know that you can beat me any day with the bow,” he gave back. “You don't need armor for that.”

Anguy raised his chin, trying to look taller and more imposing, with little success. “I'm not talking about your archery skill. We both know that leaves much to be desired. I want a real challenge and we never truly tried to see if you're a match for me with a sword or a lance.”

“I hate to decline the challenge.” Beric chuckled. “I have every reason to fear you...”

“I knew it!” Anguy triumphantly interrupted.

 “...might not survive it,” Beric finished and smiled.

Anguy playfully frowned and wrinkled his nose. “I will pretend I did not hear that.”

“Aye, you go ahead and cherish the dream,” Beric gave back, smirking. “If you just believe in it long enough, one day it might become true.”

“I'm sure of it.” Anguy's eyes daringly sparkled. “You may become the greatest knight of the Stormlands, but the other six realms will celebrate me.”

Beric's eyes narrowed; he knew what his friend was really telling him. “Don't get your hopes up,” he said. “There'll be a tourney in Mistwood in only a few weeks and I have every intention of winning.”

Anguy raised his eyebrows, now intrigued and surprised. “There goes my dream of knightly glory,” he sighed. “I never thought House Mertyns would betray me like this. For years, they quietly hid in their forest and now they strike from the shadows at the most inconvenient time.”

“Wouldn't it be a shallow victory if the only reason I hadn't won a tourney in each castle of the Stormlands was that one castle never gave me the chance?” Beric stepped closer to inspect the saddle bags and the wine that was in them.

“I suppose so.” Anguy shrugged and pulled out one of the bottles to hand it to Beric. “What will you do once you have your last victory though? Build a new castle, to be spared of long rides?”

Beric took the bottle and shot Anguy a reproachful glance from the side. “I already have a perfectly good castle,” he gave back. “And once I have that last victory still missing, I will come with you, if only to witness your efforts at becoming a hedge knight...” He peeked into the open saddle bag; bottles and more bottles. At this rate of blowing his winnings on wine, Anguy's shiny armor would be but a distant dream for a very long time.

“It's about fucking time!” Anguy grinned. “Once you escape the vigilant eyes of your father, I can finally teach you how to have fun.”

Beric raised an eyebrow and stored the bottle back in the saddle bag as best as he could in the limited space. “I think you're mistaking me for your fool,” he said. “I still have a reputation to uphold. No matter how far from home we might travel, I won't start to walk in your footsteps on the way.”

Anguy laughed and reached for the wine again, then opened the bottle to take a long swig. “You make Septon Wyeford look like a sinner,” he replied with a sneer. “It won't kill you to loosen the reins a little.” He took another swig and offered the bottle to Beric, but he still declined.

“You think Ser Barristan Selmy or Ser Arthur Dayne earned their fame by stumbling around drunk in brothels?” Beric crossed his arms, as if to further reject the offered wine.

Again, Anguy answered with a shrug and a laughter. “Probably not,” he said. “But I prefer some fun to high aspirations. If all you want from life is to be known for your virtues, that's your choice, but I take the sweet vices over that any day.”

“And I won't stop you,” Beric replied with a smile. “Just look at it this way, more wine and women for you.”

Anguy nodded and grinned, then closed the bottle to put it back in the saddle bag. “Aye, I'm not complaining,” he said when he turned to lead the horse to the stables. “All I'm saying is it's no wonder your sword arm is that strong.” Beric didn't answer and just shot him a brief angry glare, only to get another grin in return. “My father wants the horse back,” Anguy said. “And if you change your mind about this...” He padded the saddle bag, making the bottles in it clink. "...you know where to find me.”


	2. No Nay Never

The tavern was loud and crowded, not even a single mouse would still have fit inside. The air was hot and thick and filled with music and chatter, toasts were said and glasses were raised; just like a victory celebration should be. Beric wasn't so sure whose victories were celebrated, but did that really matter when the mood was this elated? He had made an impression on the spectators of King's Landing and it had been a good one and that part he somewhat clearly recalled.

Anguy had still teased him on the way, outside the gates of the city, asking if Beric was tired of the long ride and would rather go home. His jokes had died down more with each round of the joust and on the second day, they had stopped for good. Instead, Anguy had started betting on him and Beric couldn't deny that his friend's trust in his skill was flattering. It paid out for both of them that Beric had studied his opponents during the earlier rounds, watching the joust to spot their strengths and their weak spots, to be well prepared when his turn came.

On the third or maybe the fourth day, Anguy had counted his winnings and declared he would triple them with his bet on the melee's winner and tried to talk Beric into doing the same.

“But what will become of your armor if you bet on the wrong man?” Beric had asked.

“I just won't do that,” Angry gave back with a grin. “I'll make my contribution to the luck of the right man and I'll have shinier armor than you in no time.” He grabbed Beric's arm and dragged him to a merchant to ask for a rather expensive bottle of wine.

Beric skeptically raised an eyebrow. “I doubt you can bribe a man to victory, if that is your plan.”

Anguy shook his head and paid for the wine. “Guess I have to prove you wrong about it,” he said. “Trust me, this is a safe bet.”

“I'm not a gambler,” Beric replied when he followed Anguy through the crowd. “And one of us has to be able to pay for the inn.”

Anguy snickered and continued to weave their way through the crowd. “I'll be able to pay for a palace tomorrow,” he said over his shoulder. “And I hope Septon Beric won't be too offended if I pray to a strange foreign god to make it so.”

Beric rolled his eyes and tried to keep up with Anguy's pace. “I'm not offended. If you want to gamble, that's...” He broke off when Anguy stopped at a table and Beric saw what his friend had meant.

“Thoros!” Anguy cheerfully greeted the man sitting on the table, seemingly occupied with his sword. “It has been too long since you last made me rich!”

The man looked up from his sword and his glance first fell on the bottle in Anguy's hand and then wandered further up to his face. “Not long enough from the looks of it,” Thoros gave back, smirking, and he didn't sound particularly sober. “You don't seem to be all that poor if you can afford this...”

“Oh, that's not for me.” Anguy grinned and offered the bottle to Thoros. “It's a good luck charm I thought you might like.” Thoros took the wine, opened it and took a large swig, then another.

“I already feel the tide turning in my favor,” he said, then he eyed Beric up. “And that's the reason you can be so generous, I assume?”

Beric had quietly witnessed the exchange and was still not sure what to think of Anguy's certainty of tripling his money. On one hand, Thoros of Myr had a reputation for his victories, the tales often sounding like legends, making him out as a slayer of giants with his bright crimson cloak and feared flaming sword. On the other hand, he was a drunk and a madman, preaching the words of a strange god. It was not unheard of that his sword would just break during a fight; the wildfire he used to ignite it took a toll even on steel. His cloak was not quite as crimson as the stories claimed, but there was a small bottle of that substance on the table in front of him now and that part of the legend was certainly true.

“He is indeed,” Anguy confirmed. “I have told you about him before. Beric Dondarrion of Blackhaven, the son of...”

“Aye, I know his father. I think...” Thoros regarded Beric thoughtfully. “He was at Pyke, wasn't he?” Beric nodded, but Thoros didn't wait for an answer. “I don't think we have met... Have we?”

“We have not, Lord Thoros,” Beric replied, trying his best to remain polite, even though the man was probably drunk enough to not care about formalities. As soon as he had said it, Beric immediately regretted it when both Thoros and Anguy laughed at his words.

“I'm not a lord, boy,” Thoros said with a chuckle and a daring spark in his eyes.

“And I'm not a boy! I _am_ a lord!” Beric regretted saying that, too, but now it was too late to take it back.

“My apologies.” Thoros mockingly took a slight bow. “I'm not a lord, _my lord_ , I meant to say.”

Beric tried to think of something, anything, to gracefully get out of this situation, but he came up empty. Lord or not, Thoros of Myr had earned his fame – and infamy - in uncounted battles. He was a friend of the king, for crying out loud; he was to be shown more respect, even if he didn't look too respectable right now.

“I hope your friend doesn't embellish the tales of your skill,” Thoros added and got up from his chair, almost knocking it over. “You wouldn't be the first prissy little lord who thinks he can keep up here and leaves with his tail tucked between his legs when all is said and done.” He nodded to a vague point somewhere behind the crowd that had gathered at a fenced area. “Looks like it's time I teach some of them a lesson about that.” He laughed and grabbed the wildfire from the table, then staggered away through the crowd.

 

﴾ _____________________________________________________________________________________ ﴿

 

Beric had a blurred memory of what had happened after that. Anguy had been laughing, even more so after the melee, when he triumphantly returned to Beric with a bag full of coins. There was also Thoros' flaming sword cutting down opponent after opponent, just like Anguy had predicted. Beric really wished Thoros still had the sword, because that would have made it a lot easier to tell which of the men on the table he was. If he was here. He had been earlier, Beric was kind of sure about that; Anguy had shown up with him and they had dragged Beric to this tavern.

At some point, Anguy had suggested to visit a place named Chataya or Shatya or something; Beric couldn't recall, but he did know it was a brothel, he had heard it mentioned before. He had declined the invitation and decided to stay with Ser Allmon. Armand. Almond. And his friends, Ser Zandros. Sindras. Zentros and Ser... Sol... Sorl... Solwyn, perhaps?

Maybe Thoros had left with Anguy, maybe he had returned to the table and joined the knights gathered here. They were knights, right? Probably. They looked like knights. Or they had, earlier. Some had worn very knightly armor and they all seemed to know their way around King's Landing. They were very generous, too. That was knightly. Aye, they had to be knights. They had to be respected. Beric wouldn't make the same mistake twice; he'd be the paragon of politeness. It would be a lot easier if these knights stopped buying rounds and he wouldn't have to drink to whatever they toasted to. But they just had to have had enough at some point. All Beric had to do was hold out until then.

“A toast!” someone, maybe Ser Ardras or Aldron, shouted and glasses were raised.

Beric tried to fix his eyes on the glasses in front of him. Did it matter which of the two drinks he'd raise? Would one choice be considered rude? The glasses kind of looked alike, maybe identical even, though his vision was blurry. He felt light-headed and he had long lost track what he was drinking, it was entirely possible all those drinks were the same. But Beric had no time to ponder, the last word of the toast had been said. He reached for the left glass, caught air and tried again, aiming for the middle one of the two. This time, he caught it and somehow brought it up to his lips.

The smell was overpowering, yet it had to be done, no excuses. He tried to pour it all down, but he just had to stop halfway through to catch breath. Whatever this was, it was certainly not meant for consumption by humans. Dragons might have enjoyed it; it burned in the throat and the smell alone stung in the nose like sulfur and doom. From his left... No, from his right... From somewhere to his side, Beric heard a voice ask if he was alright and he vaguely nodded. Then the glass was taken from his hand, though it was still half full. Or half empty. A matter of perspective, really.

“I think we better share this one though,” the voice said. It was probably Thoros. He was known to drink, wasn't he? But then, who wasn't? Maybe it was someone else, but probably, most likely, it was Thoros. Hard to say for sure, nobody in the tavern looked especially like a fire god. Thoros was a fire god, right? Funny how it was called Faith of the Seven when there were apparently eight gods... Maybe Thoros was the smith? Smith, fire, aye, that sounded right. Thoros was a smith, but that didn't help. Every second guy in the tavern looked like he could be a smith.

“Maybe you should get some fresh air while I finish your drink,” probably Thoros suggested. Beric didn't care anymore who had said that, it sounded like a very good idea. He managed to rise from the chair, almost crawling up on it, then he stumbled away from the table, wondering how in the world he would now find the door.

The voices around him blurred with the music and the buzzing and humming in his head, louder and louder with each step. The air felt thick, stale and sticky on his face and there were people moving in every direction at once, tables, chairs, wooden columns, all dancing around. Beric's hands sometimes found hold on those things, sometimes they did not and he had no idea if he was even moving forward at all. Then, from somewhere, he felt a cool breeze and through sheer luck, tumbled into the direction it had come from. The voices and music faded when he finally found himself outside the tavern, the humming and buzzing sadly did not.

Beric took a deep breath, inhaling the cool air of the night in relief, then he tried to focus and figure out where he was. The ground was still shaking, rolling under his feet like waves of an ocean, but there were buildings, so he was probably not at sea, which was a good start. He found a wall or a fence, something to lean against and drag himself along on, away from the Seven Hells he just left. The struggle to not fall over demanded his full attention for the moment; if he fell, there was no possible way he'd ever get up again.

The whole world was spinning, but somewhere over there was what could have been a bench. Or a planter. Or it didn't matter, it was too far to reach it, in the distant lands of five steps away. Ahead, there was a large tree, surrounded by a short wall, that seemed like a good place to rest for a moment and it was maybe, probably, hopefully close enough to get there and find hold. Then there were two trees, then three and all of them kept moving, left and right, back and forth, up and down. Beric blinked, a futile attempt to clear his clouded vision and he felt his stomach rebel.

Now the whole damn forest was moving, floating in circles, Beric had reached the end of the wall or the fence he clung to and so he just stumbled toward the nearest of all those weird trees. He reached the short wall, wobbling and shaking along with the ground, and there he fell to his knees, leaned over it, and the rebellion began.

 

﴾ _____________________________________________________________________________________ ﴿

 

When Beric woke up, his head felt like King Robert himself had taken a swing at it with his hammer. It was also as bright as the sun in here, wherever that was. Beric tried to narrow his eyes, but that felt like stabbing through them with daggers, so he quietly groaned and just closed them again.

He tried to remember what had happened, but the last thing he could recall was talking to a group of men at the tourney, about the joust perhaps, but that part was not clear in his mind. There was also absolutely nothing that explained how he had ended up here. Was this a kidnapping? Would anyone be bold enough to kidnap knights under the nose of the king, during his own name day tourney? Would kidnappers keep him in a rather comfortable bed? All Beric found was more questions and not a single answer. He'd have to face the blinding light of a million suns again to figure out where he was. Maybe more details would come back to him then. All he needed was one little hint.

Carefully, he opened one eye, blinked and waited a moment to open the other. It took a while until he could make out anything through the dazzling light and the thundering headache. This was a chamber, one someone lived in and not all too bad. Good. Not a cell, not a dungeon, not a cave, at least there was a window that allowed the still much too bright sunlight in. There was a chance he was not a captive and if he was one, he could maybe escape.

A closer inspection of the room, painful because it meant lifting and turning his head, revealed that he was alone, so Beric decided to get up and see if he could climb out of the window. He did not get far. As soon as he lifted the blanket, he immediately pulled it back again. Those were not his smallclothes and yet that was all he was wearing. For a small eternity, Beric froze, hands still clutching the end of the blanket, eyes closed again, head sunken back into the pillow. Not only kidnapped, but also robbed in the worst possible way. At least it couldn't get worse, he thought, resigned to his fate. Then he heard the door being opened and knew he had never been so wrong in his life.

 

Instinctively, Beric pulled the blanket over his face. It was nice and dark under it and if he couldn't see whoever had entered the room, that someone wouldn't see him either. Maybe his captor would think Beric had already made a daring escape, would leave to look for him outside, around this luxurious prison. Maybe he'd leave some clothes, too. Maybe some clothes and a sword. Maybe even a horse, outside under the window. Or maybe not. The door fell shut and there were steps in the room. No voice though. Maybe there was still a chance.

“You walk among the living again, my lord?”

Seven Hells. That was Thoros. Why, of all people, did it have to be Thoros? Why couldn't it be Anguy, who had put his winnings towards the palace he had claimed he could afford instead of whores for once?

Now there were more sounds, thundering in Beric's ears despite the muting effect of the blanket. Clinking and crinkling and the dull noise of glass slammed violently on wood. Slowly, Beric pulled the blanket down enough to peek out and was instantly and painfully reminded of the brightness surrounding his hideout.

Thoros was a few steps away, back turned to the bed, handling a bowl and a bottle and something Beric couldn't see. Beric tried to lift his head, but groaned in pain at the attempt and leaned back before he was able to make out what it was. That got Thoros' attention, he put down whatever he had held and turned around. He regarded his unwitting guest for a moment, then quietly went across the room, past the bed, pushing a bucket next to it aside with his foot. The sound made Beric flinch once more and he withdrew further into the pillow.

 

Then, suddenly, the room was not so excruciatingly bright anymore and Beric sighed in relief. He managed to turn his head a bit to see that Thoros was by the window and had closed the long red curtains. The sunlight was now filtered through them, bathing the room in a dim orange-red tone.

“Thank you,” Beric quietly said and pulled his head down under the blanket like a turtle, sheer instinct when Thoros left the window and stopped by the bed on his way back through the room. Beric wasn't sure how to interpret Thoros' glance, maybe pitiful, maybe gracious, maybe outright amused.

“Where are my clothes?” Beric sheepishly mumbled into the blanket still covering his mouth.

And the damn warlock just laughed.

“It's a bit too late to be prudish,” Thoros said, now definitely amused.

“What does that mean?” Beric gave back, as harshly as he could in his state.

Thoros slightly shook his head and chuckled, then left his spot by the bed to return to the shelf and his bowl or bottle. “That bad, huh?” He still sounded like he found all this terribly funny.

“What did you do to me?” Beric tried to yell, but his own voice was much too loud and so it came out only half as defiant as he had intended.

The damn warlock calmly picked up his bottles, probably to mix a potion to sedate his captive and encounter less resistance when he'd sacrifice Beric to his strange god. “Had to help you piss twice on the way here because you couldn't get it out of your pants on your own,” he said. “And to answer your question, your clothes are downstairs to be cleaned, since you puked all over them.”

Beric stared at Thoros' back with eyes wide in shock for a while, then he slowly and completely pulled his head back under the blanket again. He decided to stay there until the end of time or willingly let the warlock sacrifice him, whichever came first.

 

It was the sacrifice. At least Thoros returned to the bed and Beric felt him sit down on the edge. If Thoros was waiting for him to come out, he'd be waiting for a long time. Kings would rise and fall before Beric would leave his hideout, if ever. But Thoros did not wait. He pulled the blanket down from his guest's head and Beric had no strength to fight over it, so he tried to hide in the pillow instead.

Thoros sighed and held the bowl up. “Drink this,” he said. “It will make you feel better.” Beric didn't move. He tried to stare a hole into the bowl, to spill the poison, even if it would probably burn through his chest. “It's a remedy for your headaches. Picked up the recipe in a tavern in Dorne,” Thoros claimed. “Not the useless herbs Pycelle thinks make a difference.” As if that would make the prospect of dying a slow death from poison any better. Opening his mouth was too risky, Beric decided. Who knew if Thoros would just pour his potion into it? And so Beric just stared at the warlock as defiantly as he could.

Strangely, the warlock just shrugged and put the bowl on the nightstand. “I'm just trying to help,” he said. “But if you like to relish in your pain...”

Beric thoughtfully furrowed his brow. Maybe he wasn't a captive, after all. Maybe he wouldn't be sacrificed to a foreign god. “Where am I?” he asked after a moment of silence. “And how did I get here?”

Thoros got up from the bed, but he answered and he didn't sound amused anymore. “In my chambers in the Red Keep. Couldn't find Anguy when I got back to the tavern and I didn't want to leave you in an inn in your condition.” He crossed the room, to a corner with a shelf and a basin. “Ser Allon and his sellsword buddies are known to 'initiate' newcomers to King's Landing and it rarely ever ends well.”

Beric shot a brief glance to the bowl. Maybe he should just drink the warlock's concoction. It would put an end to his misery either way. Before he had made a decision, Thoros returned with a wet cloth in his hand and sat back down.

“They said they wanted to celebrate my 'successful debut',” Beric mumbled, not meeting Thoros' eyes. He should have known better than to trust strangers and felt stupid to have fallen for their ruse.

“Aye, they always say that.” Thoros nodded and held the wet cloth to Beric's head, sending a brief rush of relief from the pain through his body. “Can't blame you for believing them. At least you were successful, unlike the poor sods they usually play their games with.” Beric reached for the wet cloth to hold it himself. It was the most precious treasure in the Seven Kingdoms, he would never let go of it again and defend it with his life, if need be.

“I was...?” he sheepishly asked.

Thoros gave up the precious treasure without resistance and nodded. “Not as successful as I had hoped,” he replied. “Anguy talked me into wagering quite a bit on you coming in first place and it sounded like a good idea.” He shrugged. “But no hard feelings. Fifth place is nothing to sneeze at and there's always a next time.”

For a moment, Beric just stared at him, not fully processing what he had heard. Then he looked down again and slightly shook his head. “Why are you making fun of me? Am I not pitiful enough as it is?”

“So leery all of a sudden?” Thoros chuckled. “That's not very kind of you.” Beric slowly glanced up again. “I've been doing this for a while now,” Thoros continued. “His Grace is rather fond of tourneys. I probably see more big-mouthed young knights in a year than the average man sees in a lifetime. By now I can tell the difference between a fluke and real skill with stunning accuracy, and in your case it's clearly the latter.” Beric managed to muster a doubtful smile now. Maybe the warlock wasn't so bad, after all.

“Forgive me if I'm not too trusting after last night,” he said, still holding the cloth. “Not that I claim to remember much of it, but I thought I was doing alright and then...” He broke off and moved the cloth to a different spot. “It's just doesn't seem fair it ended like this.”

“That's because it isn't,” Thoros replied. “Consider it a lesson learned. It wasn't fair and life rarely is.” He regarded Beric for a moment, then he added: “Though, I will admit, it is particularly unfair when a falcon fledgling spreads his wings for the first time and is expected to fly against a storm like Ser Allon. He's all but a lightweight and even I have trouble keeping up with him some days.”

Beric raised his eyebrow. “I'm not a f...”

“Aye, I'm just teasing,” Thoros cut him off, smiling. “I'm so used to be surrounded by stags, lions and hounds who ally with wolves and bears to fight dragons or kraken... And here at court, little mockingbirds are fluttering around. Speaking of birds, do you want me to send a raven to your father and let him know where you are?” Beric answered with a blank stare and Thoros snickered at his panicked expression. “Of course, I wouldn't tell him you got your feathers ruffled like this.”

“I'm not a bird!” Beric grumbled, then grimaced in pain once again.

“I know, I know, you're a lord, my lord,” Thoros gave back, still chuckling. He reached for the bowl and held it under Beric's nose. “And now be a good lord, my lord, and drink it. I'll go find you some clothes.”

Beric huffed, but he took the bowl, then waited for the not-so-bad warlock to leave before pouring down the strange liquid and leaning back to wait for his death.


	3. The High Road

“Why don't you just say it?”

Beric glared at Thoros, then turned his eyes back to the road ahead. They had departed from the Crossroads Inn in the morning, to leave the Kingsroad behind and ride down the High Road. Somewhere ahead, past the Bloody Gate and the snow-crowned Mountains of the Moon, the hidden green valleys of the Vale awaited. By now, the sun stood high above the foothills to the South-West of the road and Beric had his doubts that it had been a good idea to take Thoros along.

“Say what?”

Thoros sounded unconcerned, too unconcerned to be serious.

“That it was a dumb idea to stay longer than planned in King's Landing and meet my family at Farwatch Keep.” Beric shot a glance over his shoulder and saw Thoros shrug.

“It was a dumb idea, my lord.”

Beric sighed. He should have known this wouldn't go well. He should have met up with his family three days ago, at the Ivy Inn, as they had planned before he had left for King's Landing. He could have done the sight seeing in the capital on the way back. What had possessed him to think it was acceptable to invite a Red Priest of R'hllor to his cousin's wedding to begin with?

Boredom. That was what had possessed him. The prospect of a long ride through areas he had last been to as a small boy and barely remembered. The thought of traveling for days with nobody to talk to. The vague idea that it was the polite thing to do, that he had to return the priest's hospitality. Anguy's reminder that a commoner had no place at a noble wedding, which was only half true. The other half of the truth was that Anguy didn't like formal events and rather rode home with the leftovers of his winnings, in the hopes of making it back in time for the festival in Ashford. With that in mind, Thoros' willingness to come to the Vale and his assurance that Beric's father would be thrilled to see him again after all those years had been convincing enough.

Now, when the evening of their third day on the road came closer, it felt like the worst idea Beric had had in the past few days. It had become more evident with each tavern Thoros just had to visit on their way down the Kingsroad, drowning every hope to catch up with Beric's family in wine. And it was very evident right now. Thoros hated every moment of the journey, he was here out of politeness and nothing good would come of it.

“It's fine if you want to go back to King's Landing,” Beric said. “I won't take offense if you return to more entertaining endeavors.”

“What makes you think I'm not entertained?” Thoros gave back. “I'm not complaining.”

Beric sighed. What did _not_ make him think that? “That was the fifth drinking song that 'just came to mind' and it seems to coincide with the absence of taverns in the past hours,” Beric replied. “I can take a hint, you know?”

“I just happen to know many drinking songs.”

 _I bet_ , Beric thought, rolling his eyes. He recalled Maester Jeon telling him that there were organs taken from the deceased in the Citadel, preserved in alcohol-filled glasses for the maesters to study. In the past week, Beric had begun to think Thoros was a live sample that had escaped from there. He drank rum before the first meal of the day. Drinking rum was the last thing he did before sleeping at night. And yet Beric hadn't seen him use his Dornish concoction even once. It didn't seem too absurd that the dark arts of a rogue maester were responsible for his inhuman resistance to intoxication.

“I assume it hasn't occurred to you that I've had enough of drinking for a while?” Beric asked.

“It has,” Thoros promptly answered. “But it has not occurred to me that it means I should voice the same sentiment. You didn't seem bothered by my opinion on the matter when I restored your honor two nights ago.”

Beric's head spun around and he stared at Thoros in disbelief. “Restore my honor? That's what you call it?”

Thoros shrugged and laughed. “What would you call it?”

“How about 'drinking Ser Allon under the table and making me pick up the tab'?” Beric suggested with an angry glare.

“That's one way to look at it.” Thoros smirked and took a swig from his flask. “But you can't deny that you were amused when he apologized and nodded along with everything you berated him for.”

Beric quickly turned his head back to face the rocky road ahead. “Ser Allon only agreed with everything because he was drunk. He would have agreed if I had told him he was Aegon The Conqueror, too. I admit, it was amusing, but it was a childish thing to do and I will not make such behavior a habit.”

“Sweet Lord,” Thoros sighed to himself, chuckling. “I can see why your cousin insists on your presence at her wedding,” he said, louder. “What would a celebration be without the unbridled fun you bring?”

 

﴾ _____________________________________________________________________________________ ﴿

 

Two more drinking songs later, the sun had set behind the mountain range that now lined the road. Beric turned around when he noticed he didn't hear the hooves of Thoros' horse behind him anymore. The explanation for that was easy to see. Thoros was standing next to the horse, the reins in his hand, and he seemed to be about to lead it to a flat slope, down to a small stream. Beric stopped his own horse and jumped off it to do the same. They had been riding for hours, and the animals needed water and rest. By the stream, Thoros began searching something in the saddle bag; probably a new flask of rum. After a short moment, he found one, put it on his belt, but kept rummaging around in the bag.

“Looks like a good place for the night,” he said, looking over the small clearing at the banks.

“Very funny,” Beric gave back.

Thoros shot him a quizzical glance. “What's funny about this place?” he asked. “The bedrocks over there provide some shelter from the wind, there's water for the horses and it's far enough from the road to not be seen. Last thing we want is to be woken up by the hill tribes at night.”

“At night?” Beric echoed, chuckling. “I think I'd prefer to spend the night at the inn.”

Thoros pulled a blanket out and closed the saddle bag. “So would I, but I fear we're all out of inns.” He put the blanket under his arm and began gathering twigs and branches, as if he was serious about setting up camp here for the night.

“What do you mean?” Beric skeptically watched Thoros collect firewood. “There's an inn ahead. I remember staying there when I visited my uncle as a boy.”

Thoros stopped, blanket under one arm, twigs and branches under the other, and regarded Beric for a moment. “The Moon Crest Inn?” he slowly said. “Aye, that _was_ ahead. Hasn't been there for at least five years now. Burned down to the ground, nobody knows if it was hit by lightning or if the innkeeper finally angered the tribesmen too much.” He shrugged and reached for another branch. “Probably the latter. Either way, nobody's bothered to rebuild it.”

Beric stood there and quietly kept watching as Thoros went over to the bedrock, put down blanket and branches and began gathering larger stones to build a fire pit.

“You had your fun,” Beric said after a while. “Now let's get back on the road and...”

Thoros looked up from his work. “I'm not joking,” he gave back and he sounded much too serious for Beric's taste. “Sure, we can ride for another hour and then sleep in the charred ruin, but there wasn't even a wall last time I saw it. It's also much more exposed to sight, right next to the road.”

Beric looked around, undecided whether he should believe this claim or just get back on the horse and see if Thoros would follow. “Isn't there anything else?” he finally asked. “A tavern, maybe?”

The stones were now arranged in a circle and Thoros sat down on a fallen tree to make fire. “Aye, by the Bloody Gate,” he replied without looking up. “The tribesmen take much less offense when the guards of the garrisons are nearby. Makes a better place for a business owner who values his and his customers' lives.” The embers ignited the dry wood and Thoros blew onto the twigs, until a small fire crackled. He now looked up to Beric, who still stood on the slope and skeptically surveyed the clearing. “We wouldn't make it there before morning though,” Thoros added and nodded to the log he sat on. “We'll ride with dawn and his lordship can sleep in a proper bed tomorrow night.”

Beric hesitated, but he came closer and sat down by the fire. “I guess it was a dumb idea to give my armor to Anguy to take it home, wasn't it?” He sighed and shot a side glance to Thoros. “I didn't think I'd need it for a wedding.”

Thoros shrugged and took the flask from his belt. “I don't think it makes a difference,” he gave back. “Should the tribesmen spot us, some shiny armor wouldn't stop them. At least you brought the sword. That might help against shadowcats, so that's something.”

Beric pulled his cloak tighter at the mention of the possible attackers and looked around between the trees and back down to the river. Thoros just smirked and opened his flask to drink. “You have no appreciation for the untamed nature out here?” he teasingly asked. “His Grace is very fond of hunting and rides through the woods. I always thought it's a favored past time in the Stormlands.”

“I like hunting just fine.” Beric shot him an annoyed glance. “But when I sleep under the sky, there is a hunting party, there are hounds to keep animals away and there are tents for comfort. It is also less foggy and cold and windy and yes, I'm aware of the irony that it's called Stormlands and less windy there.”

“You almost seem to be afraid of the dark.” Thoros chuckled and offered his flask to Beric. “It's just ale.”

Beric glared first at Thoros, then at the flask and finally slowly took it. “I'm not afraid of the dark,” he claimed before quickly sniffing the bottle and taking a sip after he had confirmed it was indeed ale. “I just didn't expect to sleep in a shrubbery in the territory of the hill tribes. I've heard of them attacking without provocation and I'm not keen to become a name in one of those tales.” He gave the flask back to Thoros. “Why didn't you tell me the inn is gone?”

Thoros took the flask and leaned it against the log they sat on. “You told me you had been to the Vale before,” he said. “I thought you knew, my lord.”

 

Beric rolled his eyes and briefly turned away from Thoros. “I wish you'd stop doing that.” He grabbed a twig from the ground and began to poke around in the fire, frustrated and resigned to the fate of an uncomfortable night in the forest. Thoros regarded him quizzically for a while, but he found no clue what had upset his companion so much.

“Stop doing what?” he finally asked. “Assume you know where we are going?”

Beric turned his head again to look at Thoros, angry or annoyed or both. “Stop teasing me.”

Thoros was still puzzled. “I'm not teasing you, my...” he began, but Beric cut him off.

“There. Again.” He sighed and glared at the fire and his twig again.

“You are upset because I address you by your title?” Thoros concluded, even more confused than before now.

“You're not 'addressing me by my title',” Beric gave back. “You've mocked me for a slip of the tongue since the moment we met.”

“I did, once or twice,” Thoros confirmed and got up. “That was when I still thought you might have a sense of humor.” He stepped over the fire pit to go to the horses. “Once I figured out you don't, I just fell back into the old habit of humoring every lord and ser and grace without further thought.” He reached the horse, resting by the stream, and opened a saddle bag. “You Westerosi put such importance on titles... Life is easier for me if I just play along.” He looked over to Beric. “Do you think I care about titles? Does it matter to me that Robert is a king or that you're a lord? Does anyone really care I'm neither?” After he had pulled out a loaf of bread, he closed the bag and returned to the fire. “No, it's all just politeness you get used to after a while.”

Beric looked up, now more thoughtful, when Thoros offered him the bread. “I thought you...” he began, but then he just broke off and took the bread.

“I know,” Thoros said. He ruffled Beric's hair and sat down next to him again. “And I assure you, I'm not mocking you. Not even now, my lord.”

Beric's gaze immediately jumped from the bread to Thoros, but there was only a brief flash of irritation on his face that made way for an uncertain smile. “I'd still prefer if you called me by name,” he replied, tearing the loaf into halves and handing one to Thoros. “If only because I can't return the politeness, my... priest.”

 

Thoros laughed and took the bread. “Good enough for me”, he said. “Not every former Essosi slave can become a lord like 'Lord' Varys.”

Beric raised his eyebrows. “Former slave?” he asked.

“Aye.” Thoros nodded, chewing bread now. “He's not a lord like you. He's a lord by assumption only, because he didn't mock the first person to call him that and just played along. I'm not saying he's lying to people, not about that anyway, but he can be rather reluctant to correct the mistake. The truth is, he's a slave boy from Lys who was less lucky than me.”

“Less lucky than you?” Beric regarded him thoughtfully. “You were... a slave?”

Thoros shrugged, put the bread down on his thigh and reached for the ale. “You could say so, I guess. You have your Flea Bottom in King's Landing, we have similar places in Myr. And if a man, say my father, can't feed all of his children, he donates one or two to a temple and gets some food in return.” He took a pull from the flask, then offered it to Beric, who just stared at him and only took the ale when Thoros nudged his hand with the flask. “In the temple, there were two choices,” Thoros explained, thought for a moment, then shook his head. “No, not choices. Not really. If you're smart enough to learn how to read, you're made a priest. If not, well...”

“Then what?” Beric asked. “Don't say the children unable to read are sacrificed.”

Thoros chuckled dryly. “No, usually not,” he replied. “It happens, but it's rare. Usually, they are trained to become temple prostitutes. Either way, they'll be looked after and won't starve.”

Beric thought about that, the ale and bread in his hands seemingly forgotten. “But why?” he slowly asked after a while, sounding genuinely confused. “Why do people just accept that?”

“Not to make another bird joke,” Thoros replied. “But do you miss the feeling of flying, of wind under your wings?”

Beric regarded him quizzically. “No, how would I even know what that feels like?”

“And those slaves have never known freedom,” Thoros said. “They may dream, they may imagine. But men don't risk the little they have for flimsy desires if they know the dream is too distant to ever come true.” He took the flask from Beric's hand for a swift swig, then gave it back. “Slaves are not trained to think freely. They are trained to obey and not question their place or the order of things.”

Now Beric seemed disappointed, almost sad when his gaze drifted away to the fire. “That does not seem fair,” he said. “A man's worth should be defined by his actions and nobody should be punished for the pure chance of low birth.”

“Some slaves lead pretty cozy lives,” Thoros gave back . “They aren't that different from your maesters and midwives and farmhands. Not all, of course, but not all commoners live good lives here either.”

“But they are free.” Beric replied. “They have a chance to rise above where they came from. What gives some men the right to take that chance from others?”

“Wealth,” Thoros plainly stated, absently watching the flames. “That's really all there is to it.”

Beric shook his head. “That gives them the means, not the right.” He shot a brief glance to Thoros. “Doesn't that bother you? You see that society can exist without slavery. I'm not saying everything is perfect the way it is here, because it isn't. But at least we're not selling the less fortunate like cattle.”

Thoros looked up from the fire, mildly surprised at what he had heard. “Does it bother me? Aye, who wouldn't want a more perfect world? You bet every slave from Braavos to Qarth would agree. But...”

“Then why does nobody even try to change it?” Beric interrupted. “It can't be that every man, woman and child forgot how to dream.”

Thoros shot him a wry smile. “How would a slave do that? If he tries to rebel, he and his family will be killed. A master? They don't want to change anything. So who do you propose should be tasked with changing the world?”

He waited, but Beric had no answer to that and just shrugged, still staring to the flames.

“You can't force a society to change by telling them they are wrong,” Thoros continued. “You can force change by invading their lands, sure. You kill the masters and teach the people to live the way you think is right. But what value can you place on their freedom if you dictate how they should live? Doesn't that just make you their new master?”

Again, he paused and waited and again, he got no reply. Thoros ruffled Beric's hair in a weak attempt at cheering him up. “No man can 'make things right' alone, even less overnight,” he said, then he stuffed the rest of the bread in his mouth and got up from the log. He grabbed the blanket and threw it on the ground, a step away from the fire pit. “And speaking of night, we should get some sleep. Otherwise we won't make it to the tavern in time tomorrow and my lord will have to spend another night in the scary wilderness.”

 

Beric nodded, but he didn't get up. He remained on the log, ate the bread and absently watched the fire burn down. The conversation had given him more to ponder than Thoros had expected. The topic of slavery in his homelands was rarely ever brought up. It made people uncomfortable, they didn't know what to say and quickly tried to change the subject when it was mentioned.

A few times, Thoros had talked about it with Lord Varys, the one other man at court who spoke from experience. Coincidentally, their past in Essos was the only thing he and Thoros saw eye to eye on, so even these brief conversation quickly died down. Some days, Thoros wondered what it would be like if Varys was a heavier drinker. Maybe at a certain level of intoxication, they'd find more common ground. But Varys only sipped a little bit of wine here and there out of politeness, no more. Though forever stuck in a boy's body, the eunuch was but a man too old to change.

Thoros spread the blanket out on the ground, making sure there was enough room on it for Beric once he decided that sleep was more interesting than the last dying embers in the pit. He lay down, pulled the cloak over himself and wondered if he had burdened his young companion with too dark thoughts to find rest.

 

The fire had died when Beric came over and only the light of a pale silver moon let him see where he stepped. He hadn't said a word since Thoros had gotten up from the log, but his demeanor spoke a clear language. Unlike most people, Beric didn't quickly banish the uncomfortable thoughts from his mind. On the contrary, he thought too much about a past Thoros had just learned to live with and that neither he nor any other man in the world could undo.

Beric lay down on the blanket, wrapped in his cloak, back turned to Thoros. It didn't take daylight to see the dark thoughts weighed heavy on him and Thoros began to wish he had kept his mouth shut. It was not only the notion of slavery. In the days Beric had stayed in King's Landing, he had been confronted with a reality that didn't match his expectations. Knights were not as shiny as their armor suggested and the most chivalry Beric had seen came from Thoros, the decidedly unknightly priest of a strange god. Such a violent clash of wishful thinking and daydreams with a harsher reality could be tough.

Thoros took a deep breath and moved closer, grabbed the seam of his cloak and put his arm over Beric to cover him more. Beric didn't react, though Thoros felt he was looking for words. “For warmth, my lord,” he got there before Beric could speak. “I'm not accustomed to the chilly nights out here myself. Got too used to my cozy chambers.”

 

It was a white lie, Thoros did not find the night chilly. He suspected Beric wasn't cold either, but the young lord was far from at ease. He hadn't looked comfortable since he had learned of the Moon Crest Inn's fate, for good reason. The tribes claiming these mountains were vicious and more seasoned travelers had been attacked in the past. Thoros knew Beric wouldn't admit he was worried, no matter how much merit his concerns had. It would not have been knightly. Blaming the weather was a good enough smokescreen to give him some comfort and at the same time let him save face.

Beric quietly nodded and Thoros hoped the sounds of a world being shattered would now calm down enough to let him find sleep. He draped the cloak over them and then closed his eyes.

“Do you think of me as foolish?” Beric whispered after a while, as if he was asking the night and not his companion.

“No, my lord”, Thoros calmly replied. “I think you're young. I think all the knights you admire envy you for the youth you possess. And I think if they could be young again, they'd try to undo all the mistakes you think they never made.”

He waited, but Beric was silent again. Only when Thoros had already half drifted to slumber, he felt Beric cautiously inch closer to him. “Thank you,” he whispered, almost inaudibly. Thoros put his hand on Beric's arm as only answer and a short while later, they both fell asleep.


	4. Birds Of A Feather

Farwatch Keep lay nestled between the tall grey mountains, towered by snow-covered peaks to the North and overlooking the rolling green valleys in the Vale of Arryn to the South. After leaving the harsh and inhospitable pass and the garrisons of the Bloody Gate behind, it felt like entering a different, more peaceful world. The tribesmen claiming the rockier areas posed no danger here. As bold and as fearless as they were, they didn't dare to test their strength against the Knight of the Gate.

Beyond the gate, the High Road sloped down into the basin hidden by mountains that housed famous castles, the Redfort, Heart's Home and the Eyrie, seat of House Arryn, home of the current King's Hand. Small settlements sat between the golden and green fields like mushrooms, growing along the banks of small streams and lakes. There were tall corn stalks swaying in the wind like a green ocean, each barn and farmhouse an island amidst the soft waves. Shepherds and herds dotted the meadows in the distance, looking tiny as ants on the hillsides of the high mountain range. Watermills worked tirelessly along the streams, and lakes reflected the sun and the clear summer sky. The view across the Vale stood in stark contrast to the dry and sparsely greened mountains of the Stormlands, yet riding down to this idyll made any traveler feel like he was coming home.

 

They had reached Farwatch Keep at noon, well rested after a night in one of the valley's small inns. They could see the tall watchtower the keep owed its name to from afar, a memento of the history of House Hallsten, watchers of the valley, in times before the Bloody Gate had been built. As they had come closer, of course Thoros couldn't resist the temptation of pointing out that Beric was at least half a bird when he saw the banners. House Hallsten's sigil showed a golden diving falcon on dark purple ground, their words were 'Higher and farther' and Beric knew it wouldn't be the last time during their stay that Thoros would call him a bird.

His uncle, Lord Ulric Hallsten, had traveled extensively across the realms and took a particular interest in Dorne. From one of his journeys, over two decades ago, he had brought Kyrion Sand back to the Vale. As a guest at first, but by now the man had taken up permanent residence in Farwatch Keep, along with his wife, Lady Jiara. Not only would Thoros notice their banner, the hooded blue hawk of House Fowler. He'd also not miss the fact that it flew on the Tower of Skyreach, which served as a falconer's house and roost for their many trained birds.

Lord Ulric was well known for his falcons and hawks, especially among the hunters of the Vale, many of which would doubtlessly attend the wedding. The odds that Lord Ulric and Kyrion Sand would pass on this chance for a display of their birds were not in Beric's favor. All he could do was hope Thoros would have the tact to not tease him with feather jokes with every Knight of the Vale in earshot.

Much to his relief, his father had not seen it as inappropriate to bring an uninvited Red Priest to the wedding. In fact, Thoros' claims Lord Ossyn would be thrilled to see him again seemed to hold true. They were chatting about the last time they spoke, on a tourney in Sommerhall, five or six years ago, when Beric went to meet relatives and his cousin's groom. He had heard much about Ser Aydan Rainborn, knighted by Jon Arryn himself; the greatest honor to be bestowed upon a Knight of the Vale.

Beric didn't openly admit it, but Ser Aydan had been a bit of an idol to him for several years. He had met him only once, many years ago, and they had not spoken. But Beric's mother had relayed the tales whenever a raven brought a letter from her niece, Lady Symone. When Beric was younger, he had not taken much interest in the foolish infatuation of his cousin with a knight from a distant castle. Only after he had become a squire and saw Ser Aydan in person on a tourney in Grandview, he too developed an infatuation of sorts for the man. Over the years, and with Ser Aydan's fame growing, he had turned into the almost mythical ideal of the knight Beric strove to become. Beric began to look forward to Lady Symone's letters, detailing her knight's victories between the chapters of a fairytale mothers loved to daydream about.

Beric's own daydream had been shattered when Ser Aydan had made Symone's younger brother Rowland his page. He had spent his entire 15th name day brooding over the news, catching himself thinking it should have been him in the place of his cousin. This part of the story, Beric had sworn to himself to take to the grave.

His mother's dreams of a fairytale love story, on the other hand, had come true. Lady Symone had announced her betrothal, her knight had promised to wed her after achieving his goal of winning the tourneys of every castle of note in the realms. This idea had taken root in Beric's mind and inspired his own conquest of the Stormlands, always with the thought to follow in Ser Aydan's footsteps and work his way through the other realms after that.

After the experiences in King's Landing, Beric's enthusiasm for the other realms had been slightly diminished, but Ser Aydan restored it by living up to the tales of his chivalry, honor and determination.

Now, Ser Aydan stood under the shape of the Father, carved into the steep stony walls framing the garden, a green hideaway enclosed by the keep and the mountains. The septon was reading from the scripture while the groom awaited his bride.

 

﴾ _____________________________________________________________________________________ ﴿

 

“But why is that funny?”

Thoros leaned closer to Beric, whispering to not divert the attention of the wedding guests gathered in the garden from the ceremony to him.

“Because he was _from_ the Three Sisters, not _had_ three sisters.” Beric sighed. It was the third time he tried to explain the joke Lady Symone had told not an hour ago and Thoros stubbornly insisted it wasn't even a joke at all.

“Aye, I know where that is. But he was a Northerner. So how was he even a knight?”

“Why does it even matter? It's not a real story, just a joke,” Beric gave back. “Would you find it funnier if he wasn't called _Ser_ Halys?”

Thoros shrugged undecidedly. “Not really,” he said. “He'd still be a Northerner and wouldn't have any reason to even be there.”

Beric shot him a brief annoyed glare, then the sound of the wooden gates to the garden rescued him from further discussion. The heads of the wedding guests turned to see Lord Ulric step outside, leading his daughter down the aisle. Lady Symone's head and face were hidden under a lace veil, decorated with white feathers and violet mountain rose leaves, matching her long, elaborate gown. Only when she reached the septon, her groom removed the veil and she took her place under the carved shape of the Mother.

The septon was speaking again and all eyes rested on the couple now, waiting for the traditional cloaking of the bride.

“You do come after your mother,” Thoros quietly commented. “Same golden hair, same sense of humor as her side of the family. You're definitely more bird than you're willing to admit.”

Beric rolled his eyes and tried to ignore the remark. How could Thoros find this silliness funny, yet not understand a simple joke an hour before?

“Maybe I'd be more convinced of your non-avian nature if you put more emphasis on your father's sigil,” Thoros continued, unimpressed by Beric stoically watching how Ser Aydan put his cloak around the bride's shoulders. “Those animal motifs are a hard thing to let go, but you could at least try to make it work. I'm sure there's some maester's magic that could bind lightning to your blade, the way I ignite mine with wildfire.”

Now Beric turned back to Thoros with a reproachful glance. “I'm a knight, not the court's jester,” he sharply whispered back. “And so far, I've been doing just fine without parlour tricks.”

The septon had now tied the ribbon around the couples' hands and released them, asking bride and groom to say the words before they'd share their first kiss as husband and wife.

“Just a suggestion.” Thoros shrugged. “I happen to like parlour tricks. If you don't, that's fine with me. No need to ruffle your feathers."

 

﴾ _____________________________________________________________________________________ ﴿

 

Now, the impertinent bird jokes were long forgotten, Thoros had made the last one when the Pigeon pie was brought to the Great Hall. That had been hours ago and Beric had found much distraction, from Thoros' jokes and relatives he had not seen in a decade, by talking to his cousin Rowland and hearing the tales of the Knights of the Vale. Unlike the knights he had met in King's Landing, these men were humble and honorable and did not try to play any tricks.

There was a brother of Ser Mandon Moore, who had the honor to serve in the Kingsguard, sitting next to Harrold Hardyng, still a squire, yet known throughout the Vale for being Lord Arryn's heir presumptive. From Longbow Hall, which House Hallsten was sworn to, came the three sons of Old Lord Hunter, and Ser Wenlyn Hersy had made the long way from Newkeep.

Between stories of combat and tourneys all over the realms, Beric had almost forgotten the time and his own guest. Earlier, he had seen Thoros across the hall, talking to Ser Astron and Ser Danyc, the twin brothers from House Ruthermont, who had both fought in the Siege of Pyke. When Beric remembered to look for him again, he couldn't find Thoros anywhere on the tables. Then he finally spotted him with the performers that had juggled with their batons on fire and Beric found his guest seemed well entertained.

As the night grew long, the newlywed couple withdrew to their chambers, but the feast went on for their many guests. The glamour of the knights began to fade as some had grown fond of the Dornish red wine, so Beric decided to leave and find Thoros, rather than stay and see more facades crumble. Even if the Red Priest had shown the same affection for the wine, and that was quite likely, it would be a more familiar and less disappointing sight.

 

Beric got up from the chair, leaving the knights, their tales and the delicacies behind on the table. The music was still playing, some guests were dancing, most had gathered in small groups to chat and share drinks. Beric spotted his uncle's falconer, the last one he had seen talking to Thoros, but there was no trace of the priest in the Great Hall now. Beric wandered around, evading a too nosy aunt, Lord Ulric's wife Gylenna, and to his relief, he finally caught a glimpse of Thoros and stopped short.

What was his father doing up on the gallery with the Red Priest? Why were they not down here among the other guests? Why did they quickly walk away from the banister, toward the solar, as if they were trying to avoid being seen?

Beric made his way through the crowd to the staircase. Something wasn't right about this. His father wouldn't seek secrecy to exchange war stories or discuss recent events. What if he had asked Thoros about Beric's stay in King's Landing? What if he'd learn of the rather unknightly night after the tourney? Beric had no reason to think Thoros had revealed the embarrassing details already, but if that was his intention, he'd probably do it under four eyes.

Beric reached the stairs and quickly went up to the gallery. Maybe he still had a chance to stop Thoros before he got to the worst part of the tale. Maybe he could at least defend himself and direct his father's attention to the success in the tourney and away from the less glamorous events that had followed. He found the door ajar and froze when he caught the last words Thoros' said. Something about a rare substance, then both men in the solar had gone quiet, probably because they had heard footsteps outside. But it hardly mattered now, did it? It was too late to try and prevent the shameful reveal. What would Thoros have meant, if not his Dornish concoction?

The door opened and strangely, Lord Ossyn's voice was calm, almost somber, not shocked or upset. “Beric, give us a moment. This is not for your ears.”

Beric skeptically regarded his father, leaning against a tall bookshelf made of dark wood, then shot a brief angry glare to Thoros by the door. “I gathered as much,” he gave back. “I just have to wonder what requires such secrecy that you sneak away and hide up here from prying ears.”

Lord Ossyn exchanged a quick glance with Thoros, then he took a deep breath and turned back to Beric. “I assure you, there is no reason for concern,” he said. “Go back to the Great Hall. You don't want to miss the jester's performance. Your uncle told me it's known to be hilarious all through the Vale and we'll make sure to be back to see it as well.”

Instead of answering, Beric just huffed and stormed off. As if he'd be in the mood to see a jester after Thoros had exposed him as a fool.

 

﴾ _____________________________________________________________________________________ ﴿

 

"You're missing the jester."

Thoros stayed by the door of the tower, watching Beric pace up and down on the battlement overlooking the Vale. The moonlit settlements and fields down in the valley looked peaceful and serene at this late hour, perfectly capturing all the things Beric was not.

Beric paid no attention to the question at first, then he suddenly stopped and turned to angrily glare at Thoros. “You're not, since you just found him”, he sharply gave back.

For a moment, Thoros was taken aback, but he caught himself quick enough. “What are you doing up here?” he asked. “You're not brooding over me talking to your father, are you?”

"Did you tell him what happened in King's Landing? How I dishonored myself and you had to feed me your Dornish brew to sober me up?” Beric still stared at Thoros, as if he expected a fight to break out any moment. “I heard you speaking of a substance and I...”

"I didn't say a word about that," Thoros calmly cut him off. "Your father didn't ask. And even if he did, do you think I'd go through that much trouble to get you back on your feet just to betray your trust later? If I wanted you to look like a fool, I'd have left you in the flowerbed I found you in."

Beric sighed, that was a fairly good point Thoros made. Robbed of his reason to angrily glare at him, Beric turned back to the night sky and the valley. "Then what did you talk about?"

Thoros stepped out on the battlement and shut the door before he joined Beric by the wall. "We were not hiding from you," he said after a brief silence. “And most of our discussion contains no great secret. We merely spoke privately to not instill false hope.”

Beric regarded him quizzically from the side. “False hope about what?”

“A gift for the wedding anniversary of your parents,” Thoros replied. “I'm sure you've been told how they met.”

Beric shrugged and looked back to the valley. “They met at Storm's End, during a harvest festival, I believe. My grandfather thought it was a good match, so my father rode to the Vale and there they were wed.”

Thoros raised his eyebrows. “You make it sound so mundane,” he said, smirking. “I had taken you for more of a romantic fool.”

 

“I merely tire of speaking of weddings,” Beric gave back. “Every aunt and great uncle three times removed has brought it up throughout the day. Isn't it enough I'm attending one?”

“If you want to know what I discussed with your father, you'll have to listen about your parents' wedding some more.” Thoros waited and Beric undecidedly nodded.

“Your father told me that your mother often fell ill as a girl and this was a reason her family worried about finding a match. She begged and she pleaded to be allowed to marry your father. And your grandfather was not opposed to the idea, as he saw the warmer climate in the Stormlands was good for her health. Still, he felt he had to tell the suitor about her condition and everyone worried over the prospect of him losing interest, as so many before.”

Beric listened, but he now looked bored. He leaned down on the wall, his chin rested on his arms, his glance seeking something more interesting than old tales in the sky. “I know, I know.” He sighed. “But my father didn't pull you away from the feast to tell you all that.”

“He did,” Thoros replied. “He also told me he already knew the secret everyone feared would scare him away. He rode to the Vale regardless and brought a gift that would let everyone know that he knew and didn't care one bit about it. That gift was the 'substance' you heard mentioned, a medicine called Dusk Rose tea, rare even in Essos. He tried to procure again it as an anniversary gift, but the trader he had asked had no luck. Your father took me aside to ask for a favor, to try and find him some of the tea through my contacts in Myr.”

Beric seemed more relaxed after hearing that, but it took a moment until he found his voice again. "My apologies then." He glanced to Thoros. "I shouldn't have accused you of betraying my trust."

Thoros shrugged and ruffled Beric's hair. "Don't worry about it. You've been of a strange mood all day," he said. "You couldn't know that the ceremony would unearth such memories of young love in your father."

 

Beric's expression immediately shifted back to annoyance. "Don't. Just don't."

Dumbfounded, Thoros made a step back, away from him. "What did I do now?"

"Nothing. Yet." Beric stared back to the valley, as if he was challenging the landscape itself to a fight.

Thoros raised his eyebrows and regarded Beric for a moment. "Well, what am I accused of possibly being about to do then, my lord?" he asked with all seriousness he could muster.

"I'm fairly sure you are the only person in the entire keep who has not bothered me about getting married, ideally yesterday, to the first best lady I can find. It's only a matter of time until you start pestering me as well."

"And why would I do that?" Thoros came closer again.

"Why wouldn't you?" Beric swirled around. "My cousin can marry for love. My parents could marry for love. Everyone can marry for love in this family, except me. I absolutely can't, I should just get done with it already, no matter who.” He paused, took a deep breath, then asked calmer and more composed: “Have you seen my uncle talk to his wife just once since our arrival?”

Thoros thought for a moment, then he shook his head and Beric nodded knowingly. “He's the one who married solely to strengthen the bond with House Hunter. For three decades, he and Lady Gylenna share a roof, but live in different worlds. My uncle jokes that his true spouses are his Dornish falconers, calling the birds their true born children. That is not the life I want.” He sighed and turned back to the arch nemesis the valley had seemingly become.

 

“I thought the day I was knighted was the best day of my life”, Beric quietly continued. “But ever since, nothing has been the way I imagined. People act like I'm a fool unaware of his own desires and that's coming from men who swore the same oath. Some were pressured by family tradition to pursue knighthood, but I wasn't. It was what I wanted and I said those words because I believe in them.”

He turned around, leaned his back against the wall and shot a quick glance to Thoros, who quietly listened. “I'm used to Anguy joking about my refusal to partake in drinking and gambling and bedding every lass he can find. But he's not a hypocrite. He's not a knight and he didn't swear to live by the words of the oath.” He dismissively nodded to the door to the gallery. “And then there's people like my cousin. He's been Ser Aydan's squire for years and sees the fame and respect his knight earned by being... knightly. Yet he keeps joking about my refusal to get drunk or have a maid sent to my chambers tonight. Or my uncle and my father 'jokingly' asking when I will get married, though both should know well enough why I want to wait for true love.” He looked back to Thoros. “Is that really such a strange thing to desire?”

Thoros regarded him for a while, then he shook his head. "It isn't," he calmly said. "It is not my place to judge and I can understand why a father would be concerned with his bloodline. But I also see what an unhappy, loveless marriage does to a man. It isn't pretty and I wouldn't wish it upon my worst enemy." He put a hand on Beric's shoulder and added: “And it is your choice and your right to live the way you see fit. The knightly life is not for me, but I have much respect for a man who stands by his word.”

 

Beric seemed surprised, almost confused, at what he heard. “Why can't you be my father?” he said with a sigh. “You understand.”

Thoros watched him for a while, playing through the conversation he had had with Lord Ossyn in his head. The request for a rare medicine, a romantic's sudden rush to see his son married, it summoned suspicions Thoros would rather not have had in the back of his mind.

“Because nobody could ever love you like he does, my lord”, he replied, carefully considering his words. “But I can be a friend who lets you forge your own fate and won't try to seduce you to sin.”

Beric hadn't expected an answer and now he just stared at Thoros with big thoughtful eyes, looking for and not finding the words to react.

“Talk to him, my lord,” Thoros relieved him of the burden to say something. “Tell him what you told me. I'm sure your father will understand. Maybe not here, maybe not now. This does not seem to be the right time or place. When you get back to Blackhaven, you'll go hunting or fishing together and have the peace and quiet to talk, man to man, not just as father and son.”

Beric remained silent, but he nodded and let Thoros put an arm around his shoulder. “And now, stop frowning,” Thoros said in a more cheerful tone. “I'll get myself a bottle of wine and some ale for you, then we retire to our chamber and I tell you all the new bird jokes I learned today.”


	5. Of Wine, Knightly Vows And Sins Of The Seven

“That was not a very knightly thing to say about your father.”

Anguy put no effort in pretending to sound perplexed and just smirked when Beric shot him a brief annoyed glare.

“Aye, that's why you didn't hear it,” he replied and stared back across the courtyard to the gate. “He could have told me about the invitation.” He looked back to Anguy, as if he was the one who had failed to inform him. “Or at least said something earlier, so I wouldn't look like a stable boy now.”

Anguy snickered and leaned back so far, he almost fell off the fence they were sitting on outside the stable. “You think Thoros cares that his fair maiden isn't dressed in the finest gowns?” He managed to interlock his legs on the bars of the fence before he lost balance. “He's not exactly dressed in the shiniest armor himself.”

Beric huffed and glared over to the gate again, where his father and Maester Jeon were talking to the unexpected visitor. “He's a guest from _court_ ,” he said, ignoring Anguy's teasing. “It would be disrespectful to greet him looking like this.” He turned to Anguy again. “You just had to throw that hay bale at me, didn't you?”

Anguy pretended to think about that for a moment, then tried to sound firm and serious when he spoke. “Aye, I did. I can only stand working while you watch and do nothing for so long.” He eyed Beric up and wrinkled his nose. “Now you got what you deserve for that laziness. You look like the filthiest peasant from Flea Bottom and Ser Thoros of the Kingsguard would despise you if he saw you like this.”

Beric narrowed his eyes. “You knew he'd come to visit me, didn't you?”

Anguy shrugged with an innocent smile. Beric grumbled and gave him a push, not enough to topple him. Anguy pulled himself up on the fence with ease. “Frankly, it looks like he's visiting your father... Though, Thoros is known for his meticulous compliance with etiquette. I guess it's proper to ask him for your hand.” He barely managed to evade Beric's attempt to push him again, this time stronger, enough to almost lose balance when he missed.

“Oh, I know how you can get out of this without a walk of shame to clean up in your chambers.” Anguy inched away from Beric before revealing his epiphany. “You tell him we were just kidding in King's Landing about your identity and you're really a stable boy! That way, you have an excuse to be dressed like a peasant for your sweetheart's arrival. And I still owe him a prank for glazing my bow string with honey back in...”

“Stop saying that!” Beric almost shouted and quickly adjusted his volume, then looked back to the gate to make sure the brief outburst of anger went unnoticed. “He knows who I am. And he's not my 'sweetheart'.”

“Of course not. You barely talked about anything but him since your return from the Vale because you don't like him.” Anguy laughed and unexpectedly pushed Beric off the fence. “But if he sees you sitting here, coy like a princess, he'll get the wrong impression and thinks you do have a crush.” He jumped off the fence and put an arm around Beric's shoulder. “So you go get his horse now and act like you don't even remember him. That will let him know he's of no importance to you.”

Beric didn't answer. He just angrily glared at Anguy and didn't move. After a moment, Anguy shrugged and let go of Beric's shoulder. “Fine, then I'll get his horse and tell him you were too nervous to approach.” With that, he stepped over the short wall outside the stable to make his way across the courtyard. Beric huffed and quickly followed him. He caught up after a few steps, grabbed Anguy's arm and stepped in front of him to block his way.

“You take the horse to the stables and keep your mouth shut!” he said, much too loud to count as the whisper Beric meant it to be. Anguy raised his chin and straightened his back, as if he was making a challenge.

“Or what? You'll withhold the dowry you owe me for introducing you to him?”

Beric sighed at the smug smile that followed and let go of Anguy's arm. “Just don't make me look like a fool in front of my father, please?”

He waited for an answer, but Anguy didn't give one, just his smug smile grew into a smug grin. Beric was about to repeat his plea when he was grabbed from behind, lifted off the ground and felt a kiss on his cheek.

 

“Now that's a welcome sight!” Thoros set Beric back down. “I half expected you to sit in your chambers, perfumed and powdered, reading poetry or playing a harp. Looks like you don't mind getting your hands dirty, after all.”

Anguy snickered at Beric's surprised face and attempt to say something, then he nodded to Thoros. “I'll take care of your horse”, he said. “If you have no pressing business later, we can talk in the evening and sample my winnings from Ashford. I have a few bottles left.”

“That sounds like pressing business to me,” Thoros gave back. “It's only chivalrous to help you with those pesky bottles.”

Anguy winked at Beric before he left to get Thoros' horse. “As always, you're invited to join me as well.”

Thoros grabbed Beric's shoulders to spin him around. “And you took an oath of silence?” he asked, smirking. “Or are you trying to tell me you didn't miss me at all?”

“I did, I mean...” Beric quickly tried to straighten his shirt and brush off the remaining straws from Anguy's earlier attack. “I am glad to see you. Please forgive my manners. I didn't know you were coming, if I had known, I'd have been with my father when you...”

He broke off when Thoros laughed and ruffled Beric's hair, then pulled him in for a hug. “You did miss me,” he said when he let go. “I've never visited Blackhaven, so I thought I'd deliver the anniversary gift your father asked for in person.” He lowered his voice when Anguy lead the horse past him and Beric, toward the stables. “Did you talk to him?”

Beric nodded. “Aye, we went down to the Wyl for a few days and we've found common ground. He won't rush me and he understands that other things are more important to me for now.”

“I'm glad to hear that,” Thoros replied. “How about you show me around then?”

 

﴾ _____________________________________________________________________________________ ﴿

 

The sun had set over Blackhaven and the barn's attic held more visitors than hay bales by now. Gathered around a collection of lanterns, bottles and mugs, the inhabitants of the castle took the rare chance to listen to the tales of a famed swordsman. Usually, visitors of importance spent their evenings in the solar with Lord Ossyn and did not mingle so freely with the common folk. But Thoros didn't follow the example of high born guests visiting castles, he followed the wine and there was quite a bit of it here.

A few of the people had their own little history with Thoros, like Jasry, the armorer, who had fought by his side once when he was younger, during Robert's Rebellion. Some of the archers Anguy traveled with knew him in passing from tourneys and one of the tanners had drank with him on a festival in the Reach, two years ago. Others had only heard about Thoros and curiously inquired about life at court and his travels.

 

Beric climbed the ladder back up after getting new ale and returned to the merry crowd sitting on the floor and on hay bales. The butcher's helpers, Eldon and Garvy, had brought bacon and sausages. Anguy had a rather impressive collection of wine and one of Blackhaven's guards had added his homemade mead. The one thing nobody had thought to stock up on for the improvised feast in the barn was simple ale.

Armed with two bottles, Beric made his cumbersome way through the assortment of mugs, cups and lanterns to return to the hay bale he had sat on earlier, though there were several he could have reached more easily. As soon as he sat down next to Thoros, Anguy leaned closer to Beric's ear. “I have to take back what I said earlier,” he whispered, the smirk audible in his voice. “I've never seen you _this_ indifferent before. You're even more indifferent than in King's Landing, around Ser Arys Oakheart...” He broke off and laughed when Beric gave him a nudge and a brief glare.

 

Thoros paid no attention to what was going on next to him; he was still answering questions from the crowd. Especially the guardsmen couldn't get enough of the tales he told of the tourneys, as they rarely got the chance to travel the realms themselves.

Anguy grabbed the nearest bottle of wine, found it half full and leaned back in his hay stack. Maybe there was some truth to the rumors of the Red Priest's blood magic or his god granted him power to work miracles in some other way. He couldn't remember when he had last seen Beric this unwound or laugh so much when hearing crude jokes, and Anguy was the last one to be opposed to this change.

 

“Aye, I did win the melee, but it wasn't nearly as impressive as Beric's showing in the joust,” Thoros cut off the question of one of the butcher's helpers. “You should have seen the stupid face of Ser Meryn Trant when he hit the ground, or when I told him later that I bet against him!” The butcher's helper was about to speak again, but Thoros got up, removed his washed out red cloak and put it on Beric's shoulders. “There, that's the one you should pay attention to from now on,” he declared and sat back down.

Thoros didn't pause or wait for further questions, he continued to tell his audience about Beric's achievements. Anguy chuckled into his bottle when he noticed that not everything quite matched what he remembered, but he remained silent. As much as many of these details had amused him back in King's Landing, watching Beric now amused him much more. Since Thoros had put his cloak on him, Beric kept adjusting it, tugging around on the fabric, beaming with pride and a smile bright enough to outshine the lanterns.

Whatever spell Thoros had cast, Anguy wholeheartedly approved of it. Now that Beric was finally done with his stubborn quest to conquer the Stormlands, Anguy began to plan their joined adventures across other realms. He hadn't expected his friend would even get along with Thoros enough to make small talk, but what he saw now put his visions of traveling together in reach.

The hour grew late and the wine had almost run out when Anguy rose from his hay stack and asked for help to clean up. It was the quickest way to get everyone out of the barn, as past gatherings had shown, and some guests needed the extra motivation to not drag out their farewells. Most of the men had hard work waiting for them in the morning and would need the little sleep the night still had left.

 

﴾ _____________________________________________________________________________________ ﴿

 

Night lay over Blackhaven when Beric and Thoros arrived outside the door to the guest chambers and the courtyard below them was quiet and empty this late. “Are you leaving, now that the gift for my mother has been delivered?” Beric asked before Thoros opened the door.

“I had planned to stay some longer,” Thoros replied, a bit surprised by the question. “Do you want me to leave? I can find an inn if you...”

Beric quickly shook his head. “No, no, I don't, I didn't mean it that way.” He hesitated, then added: “I'd like you to stay here. I do enjoy your company. As do many others...”

Thoros chuckled and removed his hand from the doorhandle to put it on Beric's shoulder. “What's that?” he teasingly asked. “You almost seem to be jealous to not have my undivided attention at all times.” He laughed when Beric didn't answer and just turned his face away, more into the shadow, though it was fairly dark all around under the thin crescent in the sky.

“I don't want you to think that's why I'm asking you to stay,” Beric finally mumbled. “It's not that I want to brag or be seen with a friend of the king.”

Thoros reached for Beric's chin to turn his face back to him. “It didn't even occur to me,” he said. “But I'm afraid you won't avoid being seen with important people if you travel with me. I didn't come all the way to the Stormlands just to deliver some tea and visit my fledgling lord in his nest. His Grace has sent me here with a royal decree.” He smirked at Beric's stunned expression. “Not _here_ exactly,” Thoros added. “I'm to attend the Lord Paramount's name day celebration in the king's place.”

“You didn't tell me you are that important to King Robert...” Beric stared at Thoros in awe and Thoros answered with an amused sigh and then shook his head.

“It's that Renly is that unimportant to him,” he explained. “His Grace wants his brother to know that an 'elegant banquet' and a mediocre troupe of actors won't make him lift his arse off the throne. So he sends him a priest known to empty even well-stocked wine cellars to slight him, for even presuming to send an invitation.”

Before Beric could answer, he felt Thoros' hands fumble around on his collar and then pull off the cloak. “I assume you don't need a cuddly blanket tonight, do you?” Thoros teasingly asked and Beric immediately shook his head.

“I forgot I was wearing it...” he claimed, not very believably, then quickly made a few steps down the parapet walk. “I'll see you tomorrow. We both need sleep after such a long day.”

Thoros snickered at the sudden farewell. “Didn't you forget to ask if you may steal a kiss?” he said, laughing and just loud enough for Beric to hear.

 

﴾ _____________________________________________________________________________________ ﴿

 

The tavern just an hour from Harvest Hall was filled with laughter and music and despite the late hour, the festival was far from coming to an end. Merchants outside still tried to peddle their wares, everything from fine fabrics to fishing nets to freshly forged tools. Earlier, there had been a small archery competition, as the festival was held in celebration of a wealthy bowmaker's name day. As always, Anguy had been generous after coming in first and through sheer coincidence, his purse had not yet run dry.

“Imagine what it will be like when we rake in the prizes of all three events,” he said, slurring the words and reaching for his mug of wine. “It's almost unfair to the competition if the three of us show up together.”

Beric raised his eyebrows and took a sip from his ale. “I imagine you won't see my victory, since you'll be drunk in a brothel long before the joust comes to an end,” he said.

“No, no, no!” Anguy decidedly shook his head. “I've thought this through. Thoros and I will not spend our winnings. We'll wager it all on your win, then we'll become even richer and can afford every last whore and a wagon loaded with wine!”

“I don't want whores and wagons loaded with wine,” Beric protested. “Just like I don't want to be faced with your wrath if I don't win and you hold me responsible for not tripling your profits.”

“I like his plan,” Thoros interjected and leaned back on the bench. “It's a risk well worth taking. If you don't want the spoils, fine, I'll do your drinking, he does your whoring and you'll be thrice as knightly as before.”

Beric still didn't look thrilled with the plan, but there was still time before the next tourney to talk his friends out of burdening him with such faith in his skill.

“And maybe he'll acquire the taste for our spoils, now that you're keeping us company.” Anguy looked over to Thoros. “You're a good influence on him. It's not beyond hope.”

Beric reached for his ale and raised the mug with a vague nod across the table, to Anguy. “To hope then. It's a good thing to have, though I have no plans to change my ways.”

"You know, nobody's going to check if _you_ bled in your wedding night." Anguy sighed and got up from the table. "Having some fun won't make you a different man, but it might make your bride a different woman if you have a clue what you're doing." He grabbed his mug and poured down the last of the wine. Beric's smile had disappeared and he quietly glared up to Anguy, torn between anger and shock. “I'll see if I can find some fun for myself then,” Anguy said, shrugged and staggered away, toward a group of girls on a table near where the musicians played.

 

Once Anguy was out of earshot, Thoros looked over to Beric. The dim light in the tavern was doing him many favors, but it couldn't completely excuse the flushed cheeks. Beric didn't meet Thoros' eyes, he stared at the ale on the table as if the mug was an enemy he tried to intimidate. The mug was not impressed. "I should never have told him," Beric muttered under his breath.

Thoros watched the one-sided staring contest for a moment to think of the right thing to say. He took a deep breath, almost said something, then just paused before he had even begun to speak. Saying that Anguy had a point was definitely not what Beric wanted to hear now, yet it was exactly what Thoros was thinking. Had he been just a bit more devout, he might have thought that the mystery sitting next to him was sent by his god, as a test of his wisdom. But Thoros had skipped the lessons in devoutness during his years in the temple, so no divine insights helped him to find any wise words.

He cautiously reached for Beric's head to ruffle his hair, but as soon as the hand touched him, Beric angrily shook it off. Thoros let the arm sink down to the backrest of the bench and sighed. "He was just joking," he said in a weak attempt to sound comforting. "I know you don't think it was funny, but don't let that ruin the mood." Beric, still stubbornly staring down the ale, shook his head again.

"But you think it's funny, don't you?" he gave back. "Just get over with it. Laugh at me."

Thoros' arm slowly hovered up over the backrest and around Beric's shoulder. "I'm not laughing, am I?" Beric didn't shake the arm off, but he still didn't look up. "I never had your restraint and nobody ever said I should have it," Thoros said. "But what's right for me isn't right for everyone. I guess in a way I admire your stubborn determination to live by your oath. Can't be easy for a pretty boy like you to resist a world of temptation."

 

Now, Beric tore his gaze away from the mug to look at Thoros, still flustered, but more incredulous than resentful. " _You_... admire _me_?" he repeated.

Thoros shrugged. "Aye," he said. "I'm not saying I understand your reasons, but that's on me. I should probably know more about knighthood and oaths after all those years in the Red Keep, but I don't. Most people are not keen to discuss traditions of the Faith of the Seven with a Red Priest. Guess they think I'll try to convert them or show them the errors of their ways if the subject comes up." He reached for his mug and took a swig from the wine. "But I don't need to understand the oath that was sworn to respect a man for upholding it."

For a second, Beric looked puzzled, then his expression lit up a bit. "The thought you wouldn't care for the teachings of the Seven has occurred to me," he slowly said, though he sounded more intrigued by the conversation than before.

Thoros laughed and pulled Beric closer and leaned to his ear. "Frankly, I don't even care much for the teachings of my own god, and that's the One True God. He never took offense at my ignorance, so I think he'll forgive me for discussing what others believe."

Now, Beric smiled and took his ale to drink instead of staring it down. "It will sound foolish to you nonetheless," he said. "You see, as a knight, I'm sworn to act honorably, to defend women and children and those who cannot protect themselves. If a woman would lay with a man before they are married, that would be sinful and she'd be dishonored and the knight would have broken his oath." He chuckled at Thoros' dumbfounded expression. "I told you it would sound foolish..."

 

Thoros cleared his throat and vaguely moved his head, neither shaking it nor nodding. "Well, it..." He broke off, trying to think of something that wouldn't end in him breaking out in irritated laughter. "It certainly narrows down the options," he finally got out, somewhat composed. "So you're saying the knights I see frequent the brothels of King's Landing are all sinners?"

Beric nodded, but he seemed a little amused by now. "I know that many men don't look that closely when it comes to sinning," he said. "But you don't hear the tales of Ser Barristan's whoremongering or Ser Aydan's legion of bastards. There are some greatly admired examples who did not take their oaths lightly and earned fame and respect for upholding them. I see nothing wrong with striving to be like them instead of becoming another bad apple. There are too many of those as it is."

Thoros raised his eyebrows and ruffled Beric's hair, this time without encountering resistance. "You don't harbor dreams of joining the Kingsguard, do you?" Thoros asked, only half joking. "I'm sure your father cherishes your knightly ideals, but I doubt he'd want to see you renounce the lands you'll inherit one day."

Beric blinked and for a second, Thoros thought he looked like he felt caught red-handed. "No, of course not," Beric quickly replied. "A knight must be humble and shouldn't dream of high honors far out of his reach."

Thoros laughed and pulled Beric's head closer to plant a kiss on his temple. "I won't laugh at your choices or question them, but I have my limits. If you're fine with your hand until you get married, that's one thing. But if you give up your ancestral castle in favor of honor, I'll call it insane."

Beric carefully glanced to him from the side after Thoros had let him go from the tight hug. "I won't," he said insistently. "And the Kingsguard isn't sworn to celibacy, they just don't take wives and father no children."

Thoros regarded him quizzically and put down the mug he had reached for. "And how does that work without sin in the eyes of the Seven?"

Beric furrowed his brow and drank from his ale. "I... don't know", he admitted after a few sips. "But it doesn't matter, because I have no plans to join the Kingsguard. I'll get married one day and then I won't have to worry about that kind of sin anymore."

Thoros chuckled and poured down his wine. "If it lets you sleep better, I recall a conversation with a septon, who assured me that using your hand isn't sinful." He thought for a moment and turned the empty mug in his hand. "Though, now that I think about it, maybe that was because we had this conversation in a brothel and the septon preceded this claim by swearing he hadn't touched the girl and only visited her for the view..." He laughed and looked back to Beric. "Either way, at least, that explains how not all followers of your strange faith have gone collectively insane by now, so I'll assume the septon told me the truth."

Beric shot him a reproachful glance, but he smirked. "I'd rather talk about something else now," he said.

Thoros nodded with an amused grin. "That's fine with me, but I have to ask, now that we discussed our faiths. Do you wish to convert to R'hllor?" Beric laughed and shook his head in disbelief. Thoros shrugged. "Worth a shot."

 

Beric's eyes fell on the mug Thoros was still playing around with. "How about I get you new wine?"

Thoros raised his eyebrows and removed his arm from Beric's shoulder to let him get up. "Hear, hear, someone's become very accommodating to my habits all of a sudden... I certainly won't say 'no' to that."

When Beric returned and sat down, he put two mugs of wine on the table, much to Thoros' surprise. Thoros looked at the wine, then to Beric, waiting if he'd explain his choice to not stick to ale anymore. No explanation came, Beric just raised his mug and drank a few sips. "Is something wrong with the wine?" he asked nonchalantly after putting the mug back on the table.

Thoros slowly shook his head, still watching Beric quizzically. "Not at all," he replied and took his wine. "I've sampled enough of it to be sure. But..."

"...you are surprised to see me drink?" Beric concluded, almost sounding smug now. Thoros nodded and Beric continued: "I see nothing wrong with having a few drinks every now and then. I just dislike being drunk and not in control of my actions."

Thoros chuckled. "And if it comes to that, you trust me to carry you to bed?"

"It won't come to that," Beric said firmly. "But yes, I would trust you to do that, should I misjudge my limits. You were kind in King's Landing and did not take advantage of my inebriation, as I'm sure many others would have done in your place." He paused and seemed a bit flustered when he added: "I don't think I have properly thanked you for that."

Thoros shrugged and drank from his wine. "You have, my lord," he said with a wry smile. "Your trust means more than any words or courtesies." He took another sip. "And you're the least troublesome kind of drunk, so it wasn't that bad."

Beric considered that for a moment, then his brow thoughtfully furrowed. "What does that mean, 'least troublesome kind'?"

 

Thoros leaned back and put his arm on the backrest, around Beric, again. "There's different kinds of drunks," he replied. "Some people become melancholic. Not the most pleasant company to keep, as you can imagine. A few drinks too many and the tiniest thing turns into the end of the world to them. Then there's the opposite, those that can't stop laughing hysterically and that gets old really fast. And the worst kind, the aggressive ones who try to start fights left and right..."

"And what makes one the 'best kind', if that's what 'least troublesome' means?" Beric asked when Thoros paused to drink.

"Not the same thing." Thoros smirked and put the mug down. "The _best_ kind are masters like me, who balance it all perfectly. 'Least troublesome' means they become very peaceful, agreeable and affectionate. Cuddly, one might say."

Beric shot his wine a brief skeptical glance, as if he was wondering what it might do to him with every next sip, but he drank and looked back to Thoros. "Do I want to know how that relates to the night in King's Landing?" he carefully asked.

"I don't know what you want to hear," Thoros gave back. "I can tell you and you'll be the judge of it."

Reluctantly, Beric nodded and inched closer to Thoros, quickly looking around if anyone else was in earshot.

"You told several people you love them," Thoros began. "Some in the tavern, some on the streets and if I recall correctly, no less than five guards we passed in the Red Keep..." Beric's eyes widened in bewilderment at his own actions, but he did not interrupt. "You did try to hug a few of them," Thoros continued. "But I didn't think they'd have liked that and I managed to pull you away." Beric's relief was short-lived. "...of course, I couldn't pull you away from myself, so I bore the brunt of it and as much as I like you, I can't say I like being hugged when you're covered with vomit and dirt..."

Beric stared at him in horror, struggling to say something. "I'm... sorry about that..." he mumbled, but Thoros just shrugged and pulled Beric closer.

"I've seen worse in any battle," he said. "On the bright side, you were not bleeding. And once I got both of us out of the stained clothes, it wasn't too awful. A little annoying, maybe, because you wouldn't stay in bed and tried to follow me to the sofa like a puppy. But all things considered, not very troublesome."

Beric, still looking mortified, rested his arms on the table and buried his face in them. "Maybe not troublesome, but surely it's bad enough to be seen acting like this in public."

Thoros chuckled and stroked Beric's hair. "There are worse things than a puppy to act like. Think of it this way, it's a testament to your caring nature. Isn't that a good thing for a knight?"

Beric turned his head just enough to glance up with one eye. "It is, I guess," he mumbled into his sleeve. "And it is peculiar how you can see the bright side even in my drunk misbehavior."

"That's the perk of being a masterful drunk", Thoros gave back. "If you see things double, they sometimes look twice as bright."


	6. Fishing In The Dark

“If this is how my brother slights me, it should not take me long to get accustomed to life at court.”

Thoros smirked and turned around to see the host, Renly Baratheon, had followed him outside to the courtyard where the commoners were still enjoying the festivities in the warm evening air.

“Robert sent me to do his drinking by proxy. He said nothing about relaying his manners as well”, Thoros gave back. “I happen to enjoy banquets more than he thinks and the play...” He shrugged undecidedly. “Well, I have to agree with your brother on that. The tale of Durran Godsgrief is not among my favorites, but the actors did a good enough job, I suppose.”

Renly smiled and nodded understandingly. “It's not quite in style in King's Landing,” he said. “Robert never cared for the arts and would probably not have been as courteous about his boredom during the performance. Maybe I'll thank him once I arrive in the Red Keep, for sending you in his stead.”

“The night is still young,” Thoros replied and raised his glass to a toast. “You may not be so grateful once I've completed my task.”

“That task being to relieve me of any Arbor Gold I might have in my cellars?” Renly chuckled when Thoros nodded. “Not to downplay your reputation, but you might need a few more name days for that.”

For a short while, both men stood by the gate and watched the nightly spree in the courtyard, not saying out loud what probably both of them thought.

Renly had mentioned being called to court by his brother earlier and did not only celebrate his twenty-second name day, he also said farewell to Storm's End. People said he strongly resembled a young Robert, but this was the only commonality they shared. Renly knew life at court would lack the lavish ease he was accustomed to at his ancestral castle. He had grown up with a keen eye to see the ugly truth behind the royal facade.

Thoros' restraint from drinking his way through the well stocked wine cellar was not a matter of disobeying his king. He simply saw no reason to disturb a gracious host's celebration that already stirred up mixed feelings without a misbehaved priest.

 

“You're going to miss this,” Thoros noted, seeing Renly's somber glance across the tents, fire pits and guests of his feast.

“I will.” Renly nodded, still letting his eyes wander. “But I can't escape the responsibilities of my blood forever. I've had my sweet youth. Now the time has come to grow up.” He paused and regarded Thoros inquisitively for a moment. “And it appears I'm not the only son of the Stormlands who has outgrown his habits of youth.” Thoros returned the glance quizzically and Renly smiled, as if to apologize for being too vague. “I had not expected to see you arrive with Lord Beric's party,” he explained. “I mean no offense, but you're not the company he used to keep in the past.”

“None taken.” Thoros laughed and emptied his glass. “It's not the first time I've heard that, regardless who's keeping my company.”

Renly chuckled and turned back to the gate. “Though I admit, I haven't spoken to him in a long time, so what do I know about his company?” He pulled the gate open wider and waited. “Are you coming?” he asked, but Thoros shook his head.

“I'll find myself a drink out here,” he said. “You give that Arbor Gold to someone who takes the time to appreciate the taste.” Renly shrugged and went inside, back to the nobles, the delicacies and the music.

 

﴾ _____________________________________________________________________________________ ﴿

 

Somehow, Thoros felt it wasn't his place, even if he had been ordered here by the king. Though Renly took his brother's failed prank in good humor, Thoros' presence still served as a reminder that the sweet life now came to an end. Had Robert been here, he'd have called it treason to not loudly disrupt Renly's gathering, if only in jest. Why His Grace had no love for his brothers, Thoros had never quite figured out. And that made it feel even stranger to be an extension of his mysterious wrath.

On his way through the encampment, Thoros had found some familiar faces he knew from stays in the Reach. Unlike many others who had chosen the path of a hedge knight, these men were not known to resort to less reputable means to pay for their armor and wine. The dreams of actual knighthood had long been abandoned, but they got by well enough as the glorified sellswords they had become. The four men traveled with minstrels and troupes of performers, guarding stage props and instruments of their employers at night.

This was the kind of company Thoros liked to drink with; roughnecks who talked about travels and festivals, unlike the more elegant lords and ladies inside. The hedge knight quartet not only had some sweet mead to share, they also provided the entertainment for the common folk in the courtyard. Some of the younger performers had stayed by their tent, too inexperienced to be deemed worthy to play in front of their host. Outside, they easily found an audience for their songs and poetry, most too crude for the refined ears of nobles, but popular with the common folk nonetheless.

 

Time flew in the courtyard and when Thoros got up to return to the Great Hall, he almost felt bad for so willfully dismissing a royal decree. He could at least have knocked down an expensive bottle from a table, or made an inappropriate joke about the performers' costumes, to amuse himself with the halfhearted nature of his compliance with the king's wish. Maybe, he thought, he should find ink and parchment and hand Renly a list of disturbances they both could pretend had happened in the presence of Robert. Taking the failed prank full circle might serve to brighten the mood at court in the future.

When he opened the gate and entered the Great Hall, Thoros had abandoned the idea. He found himself amused enough by the fact that he was not nearly as drunk as he'd have been at this hour during one of Robert's feasts. He hadn't even abstained on purpose and that only made the realization better.

On the stage, across from the gate on the opposite end of the room, the actors were in the middle of another performance. A woman in a long blue gown and with a wig that resembled seaweed gave a dramatic speech to a wooden set piece shaped like a wave. She probably played Queen Elenei, daughter of the gods of wind and sea, bargaining with her parents to stop destroying her king's castle. Thoros hadn't paid much attention during the earlier play, he just knew that this storm king was stubborn enough to build castle after castle and the enraged gods kept tearing it down. Maybe the troupe just gave the same performance again, maybe it was a different take on the same story. Judging by the mesmerized audience, the tale was wildly popular either way.

Thoros briefly thought about sitting down, sipping wine and pretending to be just as captivated, to see how long he'd be able to keep a straight face during his charade. He looked through the audience, some standing in groups, others still seated on the long table near the stage, but he couldn't find Beric. Putting up his own show wouldn't be as much fun without a spectator to fool into believing he was interested in the performance, so Thoros slowly strolled through the hall in search of some lonesome bottles instead.

 

He stopped short when he did spot Beric, after all, standing by the stairs to the gallery, talking to their host. It almost seemed as if they were having a secret meeting and intentionally stayed away from the crowded area between the banquet tables and the stage. Renly was certainly no stranger to gossip, but Beric was definitely an unlikely candidate to trade whispers with. Unless Renly had suddenly developed an interest in the business of commoners at Blackhaven or the tourneys in the Stormlands, which seemed rather unlikely as well. He had never shown the same appreciation for swordplay that his brothers had. Whenever Robert insisted on his presence at tourneys in King's Landing, Renly made no attempt to hide his boredom. He tried to engage Robert in discussions about the latest styles of fashion, knowing full well the king wouldn't have cared if everyone in attendance had shown up dressed in rags, as long as he got his spectacle. Renly asked about business that required the attention of the king and he smugly smiled and nodded when Robert told him to shut up about such tedious matters, all but confirming he didn't have any answers and left those dealings to his Hand, Jon Arryn. Renly wasn't innocent in the ongoing rivalry between the Baratheon brothers, but it was not like him to give much thought to it when Robert wasn't around.

 

Slowly, Thoros wandered toward Renly and Beric, chuckling to himself about the hilarious attempts to make polite conversation over having little in common that had to take place in their hiding spot. Beric's interest in jousting and tourneys was much more in line with Robert's preferred topics, though he and His Grace were polar opposites in any other way. Maybe Renly was practicing feigning interest, perfecting polite nods and vague replies to lull his brother into a more amicable mood during council meetings.

When he was in earshot, Thoros finally did meet a lonesome bottle on a small table, though it was empty. He picked it up anyway to study the label and considered dropping it, to cause some minor inconvenience in the name of the king. The longer he stood there and absently listened to the conversation around the corner of the staircase, the more he snickered to himself. What he heard certainly cast a different light on the choice of this secluded place to talk under four eyes.

On the surface, Renly and Beric were indeed engaged in polite small talk and nothing would have seemed out of the ordinary to a listener who only knew them in passing. But none of that applied to Thoros. He knew both of them well enough to find this conversation odd and highly amusing. Years at court had given him a keen ear for things that were not said and only implied between the lines; an ability Renly certainly did possess and Beric certainly did not. And here they were, having two entirely different conversations and finding common ground that was on opposite sides of the continent without realizing it.

Thoros noticed that both Renly and Beric had almost empty glasses with what looked like the last drops of a white Arbor wine in their hands. He decided to let this scene play out for his own amusement until they'd go for new drinks. It was all good harmless fun for now. As long as Renly didn't go ahead and ask Beric to join him in his chambers, he wouldn't have to intervene. There was a good chance Renly was aware of what was going on to begin with. Maybe he found the situation just as entertaining as Thoros and simply went along with it to see how far he could take it. And if he was as much in the dark as Beric, Robert would get his prank, after all.

 

“Maybe we could continue this chat later in my chambers,” Thoros heard Renly suggest. “I've always had an interest in jousting, but I should look after my guests.”

The bottle almost dropped and Thoros had to bite his lip hard to not laugh out loud at this claim. Neither Renly nor Beric sounded entirely sober and this was the signal to bring some clarity to them. He put the bottle back on the table he had found it on, almost pushing it over from silently laughing to himself. Meanwhile, Renly offered to get new drinks, to share one more glass before returning to the Great Hall. Thoros took a deep breath to compose himself, then he left his hideout and just saw Renly leave, toward a door probably leading to the pantry.

 

Beric only noticed Thoros when he felt a hand on his shoulder and turned around. He regarded Thoros quizzically for a moment, then his face lit up and his glance wandered down to Thoros' hands. The smile made way for a brief flash of confusion when he realized there was no bottle and he quickly looked back up.

“Thoros... Where have you been all night?” he asked.

“Outside,” Thoros replied. “Met some old friends I hadn't seen in a while.” He smirked and eyed Beric up. “Looks like you made a new friend while I was catching up with them.”

Beric shot a glance to the door Renly had disappeared through. “I've known Lord Renly for years,” he said. “We never got to talk much in the past, before I was knighted. It appears my recent success caught his attention. I had no idea he was that interested in jousting.”

Thoros tried his best to not laugh and his best was just barely enough. “He isn't interested in jousting,” he gave back. “He's interested in your lance.”

Beric looked puzzled. “My lance?” he echoed. “He's the Lord Paramount. If he wanted a lance, he could just buy one or...”

“What do you think he's trying to do with that Arbor Gold?” Thoros had to stifle his laughter and it didn't get any easier. He stared down at Beric demonstratively, to the lacing of his pants. Beric's glance followed and lingered there for a bit longer than Thoros had thought it would take for the meaning to sink in. When Beric looked up, his eyes were wide with mild shock and even more confusion than before.

“But... Why would...” he slowly began, struggling to put his thoughts into words.

Thoros put an arm around Beric's shoulder and leaned to his ear. “You didn't really think he wants to discuss knighthood, alone with you in his bedroom, did you?” he whispered.

Beric undecidedly shrugged. “Knights are supposed to be humble,” he quietly said, though he didn't sound entirely convinced by that conclusion. “He seems to understand many things about knighthood and shares my views on...” He broke off when Thoros failed to hold back an amused sigh.

At this point, Thoros wished for R'hllor's guidance more than on the day he was ordered by the High Priest to convert the king of a foreign continent. Compared to this, the conversion of kings sounded like an almost trivial task.

“Did Renly happen to say that chasing skirts was not a favored past time of his either, by any chance?” he asked. Beric's brow furrowed, he looked irritated and surprised and after a moment, he slowly nodded. “That's not because he shares your views on knightly virtues,” Thoros continued. “It's because Renly prefers to bed men.”

 

The bluntness of this revelation finally reached Beric. He stared at Thoros, flustered and horrified and unable to speak. It took a while for the first shock to fade, then Beric shot a panicked glance to the pantry door.

“So... He didn't ask me to his chambers to chat, but to...?” he stuttered.

Thoros nodded and pulled Beric a bit closer. “...seduce you, aye.”

Beric still stared to the door from the corner of his eye and remained silent for a moment. “Well...” he then thoughtfully began. “At least he was really courteous about it?” He looked back to Thoros, who couldn't help but chuckle.

“Do you want to fuck Renly?” Thoros asked plainly. Beric immediately shook his head. “Do you want Renly to fuck you?” Thoros continued and again, Beric was quick to deny it. “Then you need to stop flirting with him, no matter how courteous he is about it.” This time, Beric nodded and his eyes went wide with panic when the pantry door opened.

“What do I say?” he frantically whispered, inching closer to Thoros. “He's the Lord Paramount! What if I offend him?”

Thoros chuckled and tightened his grip on Beric's shoulder. “You say nothing”, he replied. “I'll handle it. Should I offend him, I know the king will approve.”

 

Renly returned from the pantry, two glasses with wine in his hands and he stopped short when he saw Beric was no longer alone. He shot a brief irritated glance to Thoros, silently asking him to leave, but he came over though Thoros nonchalantly ignored the unspoken request. Before Renly had the time to say anything, Thoros took one of the glasses from him and chugged the wine down in one go. He handed the empty glass back with a quick nod, as if to thank his host for the drink.

“My apologies for the long absence,” he said, carefully studying Renly's expression. “I was held up by entertainment more to my taste outside in the yard.”

Renly put the empty glass down on the short wall under the banister, then chugged down the wine he still held, not taking his eyes of Thoros for even a second. His glance carried both suspicion and frustration, as his inebriation made it hard to read Thoros' intentions.

“I'm glad to hear you found relief for your boredom,” Renly slowly replied. “I'd hate to think my gatherings couldn't keep up with the feasts in King's Landing. You must be used to more excitement from there.”

Beric was busy staring down the wine glass on the wall, the most interesting glass in the entire castle, if his attention to it was any measure. During the exchange, he quickly glanced up between Thoros and Renly, waiting for the misunderstanding to be resolved. Yet all he heard was small talk and so he turned back to the glass.

“Aye, life at court rarely gets boring.” Thoros nodded and paused until he met Renly's eyes. “The loud feasts and tourneys, I got used to. But what some people whisper about can be just as exciting. You wouldn't believe what rumors I hear...” For a brief moment, Renly seemed startled, but he didn't break eye contact. “But then, I don't give much about whispers,” Thoros continued. “As outrageous as some seem at first, if you look closer, most are nothing but tales spun out of boredom. I prefer a good joust to that any day.” Now Renly relaxed and was about to reply, but Thoros didn't let him interrupt. “I hear you took an interest in jousting recently?” he casually added and Renly tensed up again. He shot a quick glance to Beric, half hidden behind Thoros, still staring at the wine glass.

“I thought to pay more attention,” Renly said after clearing his throat. “If only to find some common ground with my brother. But I don't need to tell you about Robert and tourneys...”

Thoros laughed and put a hand on Renly's shoulder, startling him for a second again. “I wouldn't get my hopes up,” he replied, his eyes serious, though he still had a smile on his lips. “It would be rather boring if all men liked the same things. I'm sure you'll find company at court leaning toward your tastes.”

Again, Renly thoughtfully regarded Beric, then he nodded. “You are probably right about that,” he said. “It seemed promising to me, but I must have misjudged the potential I saw.”

“You're young,” Thoros gave back, now more cheerfully. “Nobody will hold it against you to make a harmless mistake here or there.” The last bit of tension left Renly's body, he visibly relaxed and that didn't go unnoticed by Beric. He looked up from the wine glass, from Renly to Thoros, puzzled, but he didn't say anything. “But we're forgetting the time, my lord,” Thoros added with a chuckle. “Even if my friend was willing to give you a demonstration, it is much too late. We have a long ride ahead tomorrow and I wouldn't want him to be sore in the saddle.”

Now Renly's facade crackled, he could barely swallow the laughter. “And I'd hate to be responsible for my guest's discomfort,” he managed to say. “Please, feel free to retire to your chambers. I should return to the Great Hall and ring in the end of the night.”

Thoros nodded, still chuckling himself, and grabbed Beric's arm to drag him around the wall to the stairs. “Go ahead, I'll just find myself a nightcap,” he said, but Beric was already halfway up the stairs before he had finished the sentence.

“That won't be necessary.” Renly smirked and made a few steps toward the Great Hall, then briefly stopped when he was closer to Thoros and gave him a long, serious look. “You have my gratitude for handling this so gracefully,” he whispered, nodding to the stairs and Beric. “But do him a favor and keep him away from the wine. A few glasses in, I wasn't so sure anymore who was trying to seduce whom.”

 

﴾ _____________________________________________________________________________________ ﴿

 

Beric stood by the window, looking out to the night sky above Shipbreaker Bay. How he still, or again, had a drink in his hand was beyond Thoros. He hadn't seen any lost bottles on the way to the guest chambers. Beric had to have found the glass somewhere on tables and sideboards outside on the gallery that Thoros hadn't paid any attention to. In the dim light of a few candles on the bedside table, supporting himself with one hand on the wall, Beric didn't look as drunk as he was.

Thoros lay on the bed that had been reserved for His Grace, just in case, propped up against pillows, watching the flames in the hearth while nursing his wine. It was curious how some bottles of Arbor Gold had found their way here, after all. Thoros suspected Renly had sent them earlier, to make his point about the cellars being too well stocked for his brother's prank. And Thoros was not one to complain about wine waiting for him, prank or not.

Beric looked thoughtful, the way lightweight drinkers tended to look after a few glasses too many. He had the expression of someone pretending to himself to think very deeply about the mysteries of life, when it was really the wine doing the thinking for him. He drank the last bit, then put the empty glass down in the arch of the window. Stared outside to the sea for a little while longer, then, with a drunk revelation, turned to face Thoros.

 

"Why do you think Lord Renly is the way he is?"

Thoros shrugged with a smirk; this would be entertaining. Beric's drunk musings had been interesting like that in King's Landing as well. "I don't know," he gave back. "I never asked him."

Beric absently nodded, pretending to ponder the answer, and remained quiet for a bit. "But you know he is this way," he then said, carefully weighing his slurred words. "How come you do know and I didn't if you never spoke about it?"

"Heard people at court talk," Thoros replied. "It's hard to keep secrets truly secret there." His glance wandered from the fire to Beric, who still looked like he was waiting for a better explanation, so Thoros continued to speak. "He'll make a fine politician, seeing how he navigates those murky waters. It's not just his name that lets him get away with this unscathed. Makes sure he's seen with young ladies, dances with them, whispers with them. Then probably sneaks away unseen with their brothers by the end of the night, I suppose."

Beric still looked puzzled, but apparently he now sensed the chance to gain more insights and stepped away from the window and the support of the wall. He almost tripped over a carpet, then, though sheer luck, found hold on a bedpost. "But does nobody care?" he asked and sat down on the bed's edge. "What does King Robert think about this?"

Thoros laughed and took a swig from his bottle. "The less Robert sees of his brothers, the happier he is. I don't think he looks too closely. Stannis, maybe. But Robert? I don't think he knows a thing about Renly. And frankly, if he did, he'd be in no position to scold him." Beric now eyed Thoros' bottle, and Thoros nonchalantly put it aside. "Renly is what, fourth in line? Nobody cares what he does, unless it's something that would need Robert's attention. As long as he doesn't start wars or calls the king out publicly for drinking, whoring, and fathering bastards left and right, Robert keeps his eyes firmly shut to Renly's transgressions."

Beric furrowed his brow, still looking thoughtful. "How does he know who else likes what he likes?" he asked. "Does he ask those sisters he speaks to?" His expression said he thought this was a damn smart conclusion.

Thoros had trouble to not laugh out loud at this drunk logic. "In case you already forgot, he tried to find out about you just tonight," he reminded Beric, then reached for the wine. This conversation would need a some more drinks before he could follow it. "And you don't have any sisters."

Now Beric looked even more confused. "So how did Renly find out?"

Thoros took a swig and regarded Beric with amusement. "How did he find out what?"

"That I'm like him!" Beric declared, as if he was the one talking to a drunk idiot and his own words made perfect sense.

Thoros drank again, to swallow his laughter along with the wine. "Not even I knew you are," he gave back, barely able to hide his amusement anymore.

That statement made Beric pause and think hard again. He shot a demanding glance to the bottle and this time, Thoros just handed it over. It was far past the point where it would make any difference. Beric drank a sip and thought some more, then he asked: "I am?"

Thoros chuckled and shrugged. "How would I know? You never said anything about wanting to bed Renly, or anyone else, for that matter. Whenever the subject came up, you gave me a speech about chivalry and waiting for marriage. I said I wouldn't pester you about it and I didn't, so I don't have a clue."

 

Beric stared at the bottle and turned it in his hands, but didn't drink. Thoros couldn't tell if it was his inebriation or if he really was more serious now. "A girl kissed me when I was fourteen," Beric said after a while and slowly glanced back to Thoros, seemingly uncertain if his friend wanted to hear this. When Thoros just nodded and made no attempt to stop him, Beric continued: "I was a squire, for Ser Garvan, who took me to a festival near Haystack Hall." He drank from the wine and shot a glance to Thoros, still waiting if he'd interrupt.

"Go on," Thoros said. This was something Beric had never mentioned and might hold some insights into his mind, no matter how drunk.

"Anguy had spotted a girl he liked, and since Ser Garvan didn't require anything of me, we went to talk to the lass and her friends. One of them seemed... interested in me, and quite persistently so." He broke off and took another sip from the bottle. "I tried to ignore it and since she was rather... homely, Anguy didn't try to push me as usual either. Then Ser Garvan asked me to get a letter he had left in the saddle bag, so I went to the stables. I didn't see the girl followed me until I got there, though frankly, she was hard to overlook. Then she pushed me back against the wall, her full weight holding me there, and pressed her lips against mine. I didn't know what to do, I could hardly just shove her away." He paused and drank, then added: "She was rather heavy, but that wasn't it."

Thoros reached down next to the bed to fish for another bottle; Beric didn't seem to be keen to part with the one he had seized. "Well, I don't think it would have been unknightly, if that's what you were worried about," he said.

Beric absently nodded and drank some more wine before he picked up the tale. "I guess not," he said. "But I was only a squire and for all I knew she was a lord's daughter. I knew I'd get in trouble if I laid hands on her, in whichever way." He lowered the bottle and regarded it thoughtfully, then sighed and continued. "I didn't like what she did or what she might tell her father had happened if I offended her." Thoros nodded, though Beric still stared at the wine and probably didn't see the silent reply.

"Frankly, I feared I might suffocate and I hated how... slobbery it felt on my face." His hands now clutched the bottle and Beric hastily poured down the rest of the wine. "Then I heard Anguy call for me and as he came closer, she finally stopped. When he found me, she was already gone." He broke off again, tried to drink more, but found the bottle empty and just cleared his throat. "I don't think Anguy knows what kind of favor he did me that night. He was too drunk to have seen what had happened and I never told him. It's not the kind of thing he'd understand." He stared at the floor and didn't say anything for a while. Just when Thoros was about to think of something comforting to say, Beric spoke up again.

"And I'd appreciate it if you didn't tell anyone about that either. It's not my fondest memory." He dropped the empty bottle on the floor and just stared at it, lying there, and Thoros felt bad for him by now.

 

"Come here."

Thoros put the wine away and padded the pillow next to him. Beric turned around to look where that sound came from. His eyes briefly met Thoros' and found no amusement in them anymore. Beric crawled onto the bed and over to Thoros, lay down in his arm, head on his shoulder, the lack of hesitation betraying how drunk he truly was. Thoros wrapped his arm around him and stroked his head, saying nothing, because he didn't know what to say.

"That night I decided I would wait to meet someone I really liked and who liked me back," Beric said, more to himself. He raised his head enough to look at Thoros. "It wasn't even her being unsightly. I don't need a pretty face, I just want a kind heart.”

Thoros nodded and pulled Beric closer. "You are a romantic fool," he quietly said. "But that's not a bad thing. I find it rather admirable."

For a while, Beric said nothing and just rested his head on Thoros' shoulder again. He still seemed lost in thought and Thoros would have given more than seven kingdoms to know what was going on in Beric's mind.

 

"Can I kiss you?"

Thoros almost laughed out loud hearing that, but he caught himself just in time. He glanced over to where the seemingly serious question had come from and found Beric looking up to him with glazed eyes. Thoros regarded him thoughtfully and when he didn't answer, Beric tried to explain. "Just to know if it's better to kiss someone I like and who likes me back."

Thoros sighed and ruffled his hair. "I'm honored, my lord, but you're drunk and I don't want you to do something you'll regret once you're sober."

Beric shook his head. "I know I'm drunk," he replied, the words slurred and firm at the same time. "I wouldn't ask if I was sober and never find out what it's like."

Thoros took a deep breath. "No slobbering, alright?" he said and to his mild surprise, Beric nodded and moved his head closer. The surprise didn't fade; Beric didn't pull away when their lips met. Instead he held still and let Thoros kiss him, softly and gently, even returning the kiss until Thoros stopped. Then it was quiet and Beric got lost in his thoughts once again.

"I liked that better," he finally said, matter-of-factly. "But I don't know if it's because I'm like Renly or because we like each other."

Thoros chuckled and kissed Beric's forehead. "Definitely not because I'm pretty," he gave back. He laughed when Beric lifted his head to regard him appraisingly, as if the claim needed deep consideration.

"No, that's not it," Beric agreed. "Must be the kind heart." He rested his head on Thoros' shoulder again and thought for a moment. “So you don't think I'm like Renly?”

Thoros ruffled his hair again and put his arm back over Beric. “I doubt it,” he said. “Renly is the prettiest lad you'll find across seven kingdoms, and I'd say he has a kind heart to boot. Frankly, if he doesn't do it for you, no man will.”

 

Beric slowly nodded, apparently still thinking about it and for a while, Thoros thought his confused lord had fallen asleep. But then Beric tediously tried to prop himself up and climb over Thoros, who just watched in amusement, wondering what the spell of the wine compelled him to do. Judging by the look on his face, Beric seemed to think he was sneaky, though him being slouched over Thoros was hard to ignore. Thoros' glance followed Beric's eyes, full of drunk determination, looking for something beyond the bed, out of his sight. He chuckled to himself and waited for Beric to crawl over him farther. Just before he was able to reach down to the floor, Thoros caught him in a hug and pulled him back.

"You had enough wine, my lord," he said, smirking at Beric's expression, irritated that his stealthy approach had just failed. "If I let you drink more, you might ask me to take your maidenhood and as much as I like you, you'll have to find someone else to do that."

"I'm not _that_ drunk," Beric grumbled and crawled back next to Thoros, to where he had been before. He rested his head on Thoros' shoulder, put an arm over his chest and closed his eyes. Though it looked like he had abandoned his quest for the wine, Thoros threw a quick glance down to the bottle. It was far enough out of reach, he decided, but just to be certain, he took a pillow to cover it before pulling the blanket over himself and Beric. They both needed sleep, as it would certainly be an interesting ride home.


	7. Bloodlines

Thoros was slouching on top of a wide wall in the shade of the River Gate, watching fishing boats come and go to the wharves on the Blackwater Rush. Every breeze smelled of sea salt and fish, and carried the noise of a hundred voices from harbored ships to mix with those at Fishmonger's Square. Despite the bustle on both sides of the gate, Thoros found his spot relaxing, as if the busy crowds enhanced his own laziness. When he had arrived here earlier, there had been a cool hideout in the shadow of the towers. But by now, the sun stood higher and only left Thoros a small corner to hide with his wine from the afternoon heat.

As reliable as the captain Thoros waited for was, the same could not be said for the sea. There was a damn lot of water between King's Landing and Myr. This was neither the first nor the last time that a ship would be late. But Robert's name day was still almost a week away. As long as the rare vintages from Essos arrived before that, Thoros wasn't worried about the delay.

 

“What kind of welcome is that?” a voice from above woke Thoros from his afternoon nap and he opened one eye to lazily blink against the bright sun. The voice did not belong to the delayed captain, but when Thoros' eyes had adjusted, he found a welcome sight nonetheless.

“I could ask the same question, my lord.” Thoros grinned and sat up to then slide off the wall and land on his feet next to Beric's horse. This was a new mount, he noted, its coat the color of chestnut with an almost fiery blond mane. He did not recall seeing it when he had visited Blackhaven, though he had drank in the stables with Anguy for quite a while. A bit away, on the road behind Beric, a group of guards carrying Blackhaven's banners were waiting, some quietly chatting, others admiring the view of the city ahead. “Did it really take seven men to wake me?”

“Apparently so,” Beric replied with a smirk. “Still, you were lucky. Anguy wanted to push you down into the water, but we overruled the archers seven to five.”

Thoros chuckled and gave a brief nod to the guards. “I'll make sure to reward these gallant men for sparing me,” he said. “And Anguy will have to try harder to get his revenge for the honey glazed bowstring.” He suspiciously eyed Beric up, still blinking against the bright sky. “Now get off your high horse if you want a real welcome. I can hardly see you up there.”

For a moment, Beric playfully pouted, then smiled and descended from his mount. “You did miss me,” he noted amusedly when Thoros pulled him in for a tight hug.

“Of course I did!” Thoros almost sounded reproachful. “It's been too long. And now look how much has changed. New horse, new cloak...” He let go of Beric and brushed his cheek with one hand. “And your feathers filled in.”

Beric tried to pout again, but the smile won. “Don't start with bird jokes again,” he jokingly warned.

“Just saying it looks good on you.” Thoros shrugged with a roguish grin. “A year ago, a stiff breeze was enough to get your cheeks smooth as a babe's butt. Maybe I should have sent a sharp blade for your name day instead.”

“I'm quite happy with the gift you sent.” Beric assured him. “And if the resilience of your cloak is any measure, I'm sure I'll get more use out of it than out of a blade.”

Thoros reached for the reins of the horse to lead it toward the gate to the city. “I almost sent my cloak, for the sentimental value and to remind you of my first visit to Blackhaven. Yet here you are, only appreciating how practical a gift is.”

Beric followed him and nodded to his waiting guards to go ahead. “I didn't say that,” he gave back. “I also appreciate that something comfortable and warm will remind me of you, instead of a blade held to my throat.” He paused for a moment and regarded Thoros' washed out and well-worn cloak, then added: “And that it's black. Red isn't quite my color.”

Thoros chuckled. “Calling this 'red' puts it politely.” He stopped when they had passed through the Mud Gate and looked up and into the distance. “I just hope you don't mind staying in the Red Keep with me then?”

Beric's glance followed to the silhouette of the keep, overlooking King's Landing from its elevated location by the sea. “Are you certain you want me there for my stay? And before you ask, I do appreciate the offer. I just wonder what the king thinks about you renting out your chambers.”

Thoros laughed and they continued their way through the city. “I said I'll make up for missing your name day. In the end, that's more the king's fault than mine. I'll tell him that, should His Grace really care what I do with my chambers. Though I doubt he does. It's not the first time I've hosted a pretty, young thing under his roof.”

Beric shot him a reproachful glance. “Alright then,” he gave back. “I rest my concerns. This 'pretty, young thing' gave you a fair chance to send him to an inn and not exile yourself to the ottoman for three weeks.”

Thoros snickered and shrugged. “I'm not worried about my comfort,” he said. “You can't keep your hands off my wine, I know that, and it only takes half a bottle until you don't mind sharing the bed.”

Beric huffed and quickly looked over to the guards following them a few steps behind, making sure they hadn't heard that remark. The men didn't look like they paid any attention to the conversation of their lord, they were busy taking in the impressions of the city. Reassured by that, Beric turned back to Thoros. “I have more restraint than I had last year,” he said firmly. “And I trust you to stop me, should that not be enough,” he then added in a hushed tone.

 

Thoros' prediction had been true, though not as expected. Beric had barely given the bottles on the side table any attention after getting settled in. When they sat by the window and caught up on the past months, he drank ale and had not even commented on Thoros' collection of vintages. Only when the hour was late and Thoros got up to make his exile more comfortable, Beric demonstratively reached for a bottle of blackberry wine. Thoros paused for a moment, blanket and cushion still in his arms, looking first at the ottoman, then at Beric, calmly pouring wine into his glass.

Beric had a smug smile on his lips when he drank, first one glass, then a second and then quickly a third. Thoros watched with amusement when Beric held the bottle against the light of the candle, making sure he had really drank half of the wine. Satisfied with the result, he corked the bottle and got up from the chair to walk over to Thoros. Without a word, he took the cushion and threw it back on the bed. “You were right,” he then said, smirking. “I simply can't help myself. Lucky for us the beds in this royal inn are that big.”

Thoros shrugged and let the blanket follow the cushion. “I knew I could depend on you giving in to temptation,” he said, sounding somewhat triumphant to play along with the joke Beric had to make for himself.

 

There was no need to put up a show for Thoros. He recognized the look he saw in Beric's eyes even after so many years past his youth. Back in the temple, this quiet desire had never been hidden, had lingered openly wherever one looked. Sold children had nothing but each other to seek comfort with between lessons, scoldings and prayers. There had never been a need for pretense because each of them understood.

But Beric didn't know that Thoros needed no words. He had not been sold as a boy, hadn't grown up in a temple. He had been raised like any other noble son in Westeros. Had been taught to be strong and courageous, to keep any weakness well hidden. This was all he knew and he lived by it, yet it wasn't his nature. Under the prideful disguise beat a more gentle heart than he dared to show.

When Thoros hugged him or put an arm on his shoulder, Beric rarely objected. If he did, it was briefly and quietly, as if he worried Thoros would really stop doing it if the complaint was too loud. More often, he'd sit next to Thoros, lean over when laughing, or carefully inch closer when it seemed nobody looked. He didn't have the words to say what he wanted, at least none he could say without jest. But he was getting bolder with unspoken invitations to break through his guard. Pouring down three glasses of wine was one of them. He didn't pretend it was more than a flimsy excuse to make himself feel better about wanting the closeness and affection Westerosi lords thought their sons didn't need.

 

﴾ _____________________________________________________________________________________ ﴿

 

Sunlight flooded the room, filtered through the red curtains, giving the late morning a fiery warm glow. Hushed chatter woke Beric, but since it didn't sound alarming, he only lazily opened one eye. Not even the costlier inns of King's Landing could have provided the comfort His Grace afforded his guests. There was no rush to part with the soft cushions and get up from the best bed he had seen in almost two weeks.

The sleepiness slowly faded and Beric could hear Thoros was by the door, probably talking to a servant, though it was hard to hear what was said. Then the door fell shut, steps came closer and finally, Beric slightly turned his head to look up.

“Sloth has never looked knightlier.”

Thoros smirked and put a bowl of fresh fruit down on the bedside table. Beric answered with a quiet grumble and turned his head away, burying his face in the pillow. At some point, Thoros had claimed the temple training in his youth had conditioned him to require less sleep, but Beric had his doubts about that. Thoros made all sorts of claims and later revealed them as jokes. Recently, he had found amusement in pointing out things that made him more knightly than Beric and if it amused him so much, he could have this victory.

“The ship I was waiting for has arrived,” Thoros said. “I need to go down to the gate and intercept my delivery. Last year, those fools put the bottles in the wine cellar and Robert almost discovered them ahead of his name day. I'd rather not have that happen again.” Beric nodded into the pillow. “If you want to pay your respects to the Warrior, you better be ready when I get back here,” Thoros added. “I don't mind accompanying you, but there's no way I'll go anywhere near the Sept of Baelor when it's so crowded at noon.” Again, Beric nodded without any attempt to get up. Thoros sighed and ruffled his lazy guest's hair, then he went back to the door. A moment later, a thump startled Beric and he finally lifted his head to see his boots thrown next to the bed. “I won't be long,” Thoros commented dryly and left.

 

Beric sat on the edge of the bed, dressed now and just putting on his boots, when he heard the sound of the door being opened. He almost made a remark about his excellent timing, but just before he opened his mouth, he looked up and froze.

“Seven Hells, how drunk was Thoros when he took _you_ to his chambers?”

In the now wide open door stood His Grace, King Robert I. Baratheon, his sturdy figure filling the entire frame. Beric just stared, trying hard to read the king's expression, failed in this attempt and desperately tried to think of something to say.

“Your Grace...” was all he managed to mumble, still staring wide-eyed to the door.

His Grace didn't struggle for words; he laughed and made a step into the room to look around in all corners. “Where's Thoros?” he asked and turned back to Beric.

“He said...” Beric broke off, now trying to find an excuse that wouldn't give away Thoros' name day surprise. “...nothing before he left, but he said he'd be back soon, Your Grace.”

The king huffed and wandered over to the window, blindly grabbed one of the bottles from the table and opened it to pour himself a glass of wine. “He better be,” he said. “We're going hunting today.” After a sip, he turned his glance from the window to Beric. “You're coming, too.”

Beric silently nodded, still not sure what to say. Should he explain who he was, why he was here? Did the king even care? “Your Grace, I...” he began and was immediately interrupted by the king waving his hand.

“I know, you're the fledgling he adopted.” He laughed and poured down the wine in one go. “Thoros told me you'd come to compete in my tourney. I'm always proud to see sons of the Stormlands as talented as you.”

Beric reflexively furrowed his brow when he heard the word 'fledgling', but he remembered who he was talking to before he snapped back. “I will not disappoint you, Your Grace,” he replied, just to say something.

King Robert put the empty glass back on the table and reached for the bottle again. “Does it bother you that I call you 'fledgling'?” he asked calmly after filling the glass and drinking a bit.

Beric lowered his gaze respectfully as the king regarded him with a stern face. “Of course not, Your Grace” he gave back, already regretting it as he spoke.

“Good.” His Grace nodded, seemingly satisfied with the answer. He was about to say more, but this time he was interrupted by Thoros' voice from the door.

 

“When did Beric become a good enough liar for you to believe that?”

Beric breathed out in relief that Thoros came to his rescue. Now there was hope he wouldn't forever be known to the king by this nickname, even though he was in no position to protest.

“He's been in King's Landing for almost a day,” Thoros added and closed the door behind him. “And he spent that time with me, so I'm sure he's already tired of bird jokes.”

King Robert put his glass down and looked back to Beric. “You lied to your king?” he asked, a serious tone in his voice. But before Beric's heart could skip a beat in his shock, the king loudly laughed. “Lighten up, Lightning Lord, I won't execute you over a joke.” Now Beric looked up, slightly astonished the king did really know who he was. “I actually prefer to call you by that name,” the king jovially continued. “I have enough birds. My Hand is a falcon, my Master of Coin is a mockingbird and five or six years ago, a knight... Ser... Ser...” He furrowed his brow in thought for a moment, then dismissively shook his head. “I forget what he was called. He won the joust and he had a peacock painted on his shield. Drank me under the table during the feast, so he was clearly a great man as well.”

“I like that name better, Your Grace,” Beric carefully replied and now, there was even a hint of a smile on his face.

“You didn't exaggerate about his good manners.” King Robert laughed and looked over to Thoros, who still stood by the door. “We'll have to ease him up during the hunt.”

 

﴾ _____________________________________________________________________________________ ﴿

 

“Why am I here?”

Lord Renly made no attempt to hide his impatience in his voice or demeanor. Even his white stallion could barely stand still and turned its head back to the road, where two guards stoically waited for new orders.

“We are going on a hunt,” King Robert firmly declared and handed the reins of his horse to one of his guards. “It's about bloody time we spend some time together, now that all three Baratheon brothers have settled in at court.” He gestured to have the horse taken to the others, standing on a fenced patch of meadow behind the Old Father's Inn.

Renly demonstratively looked around, first to Thoros and Beric, then to the king's squire and Ser Meryn Trant of the Kingsguard. “I don't see Stannis,” he gave back when his glance returned to his brother. “It doesn't seem like him to run late.”

“Stannis isn't coming.” His Grace huffed. “Said he has to attend the preparations for the tourney.”

Renly raised his eyebrows, as if the answer genuinely surprised him, though his voice suggested the opposite. “Pity,” he said and didn't mean it. “It's a splendid idea and I appreciate the thought to invite me, but I have matters to attend to as well. I'm expecting guests from Highgarden and would like to meet Lady Margaery at the gate in...”

His Grace didn't let him finish. “We are going on a hunt!” he barked. “Now get off that horse and start smiling, because you're not meeting any lady love at the gate until we had fun.” Renly huffed, taken aback by his brother's sudden harsh tone. He was about to say something, but the king wasn't done yet. His eyes narrowed and he sounded both calmer and angrier when he continued. “Careful, Renly. Careful what you say next. You aren't speaking to your brother. You're speaking to your king and your king commands you to get off that fucking horse.”

For a moment, nobody spoke and even the forest behind the tavern fell silent. Slowly and reluctantly, Renly descended from his horse and gave a brief nod to his guards on the road. “My apologies, Your Grace,” he pressed out between gritted teeth and with a glare that could kill. “I was taken aback by the prospect of _this_ much excitement. Of course, Lady Margaery will have to wait while we are having fun on the hunt.”

 

The tension was short-lived and that was not Renly's doing. The king had just directed his wrath at a different target by the time they marched into the forest. His squire, Lancel Lannister, had made one grave mistake. Ser Meryn Trant had remarked that it looked like a storm was brewing out over the sea and that he thought it would probably rain later that day. Lancel had agreed with this, loud enough to reach royal ears. Ever since, King Robert was loudly scolding him, explaining it didn't matter who said what first, it was simply not a squire's place to have an opinion, unasked.

While Ser Meryn provided the king with rhetoric examples of what counted as 'asking' and what certainly did not, Thoros just quietly walked with the trio, drank from his flask and let the king's wrath wear off. Renly was following the group with a few steps distance, still far from having the fun he was ordered to have. It was the first time Beric saw the Lord Paramount and new Master of Law since the banquet at Storm's End and the circumstances of their farewells there had not been the best. The rude welcome Renly had received from his brother only added to Beric's decision to ease things up between them. After making sure His Grace was too busy lecturing his squire to pay any attention, Beric fell back a few steps.

 

“Lord Renly, I hope you have settled in since your arrival,” he carefully began, not certain if the king's brother held a grudge against him.

Renly seemed mildly surprised, but he didn't sound angry when he replied. “I have, as much as one can,” he gave back with a snide glance to His Grace. “But if you haven't made arrangements already, I recommend finding accommodations far away from the Red Keep. It gets rather stormy there on occasion and I have a feeling there might be rain later today.”

Beric briefly looked over the trio ahead of them, making sure the king really hadn't heard the last part, though Renly didn't show any concern toward that possibility. “I would consider the warning,” he said. “But I accepted Thoros' invitation to stay with him, in the eye of the storm.” Thoros fell a step behind the king, not far enough to join the conversation behind him. Still, Beric thought it was not a coincidence Thoros tired of listening to the king's ramblings when his name was mentioned.

Renly smiled, watching Thoros from the corner of his eye. “Then you should enjoy the privileges of having a host the king likes. Not every guest is so lucky these days.”

“The guests from Highgarden, you mean?” Beric asked and Renly silently nodded, a brief flash of anger breaking through his polite facade. “I'm sure Lady Margaery won't hold the delay against you,” Beric quickly added.

“I hope so.” Renly replied with a sigh. “I was hoping to spend some time with her before the tourney begins.”

“Does she accompany her brothers to the tourney?” Beric casually inquired and as he said 'brothers', a bell rang somewhere in the back of his mind.

“Only one of them,” Renly gave back. He regarded Beric thoughtfully for a moment and it felt like he kept the answer intentionally vague and short.

Now Beric felt challenged to find out if he was really on the right track with this gut feeling. “Ser Loras, I assume? He wouldn't miss a tourney as prestigious as this.” Renly just nodded again, but he still looked a bit incredulous, unsure he was reading Beric right.

“If you still have an interest in learning more about jousting, you should consider spending time with him as well,” Beric added. As soon as he had finished the sentence, he had to chuckle. Renly's glance shot over to Thoros, confused and making no attempt to hide it, as if he was silently asking if this was really Beric he was talking to. Thoros answered with a slight shrug and a smirk before turning his attention back to his flask.

Renly seemed amused when he looked at Beric again. “I should indeed,” he said. “In our past conversations, he was happy to share his knowledge and I have learned quite a bit. Or maybe I'm just more perceptive when I'm sober.”

“Speaking of sobriety...” Beric still chuckled, relieved Renly seemed more relaxed after Thoros' wordless reassurance. “I think I owe you an apology for the... misunderstanding during your name day celebration.”

“You don't,” Renly replied and his tone had suddenly shifted to sound more formal again. “I know you are not to blame for your friend's misbehavior, nor is Thoros himself. He only obeyed orders and I don't expect the true culprit to...”

 

“You're damn right about that!” the king loudly interrupted. Maybe he had found enough entertainment in the misery of his squire, maybe he had heard enough of the conversation to conclude Thoros had indeed disturbed Renly's banquet. Either way, His Grace was in a much better mood now. He put a hand on Beric's shoulder and almost violently pulled him away from Renly, between himself and Ser Meryn. “Glad my brother isn't petty enough to blame you for my pranks,” he cheerfully declared. “Prissy brat he is, I wouldn't be surprised if he held a grudge against you. He should thank me for bringing some fun to his dull banquet! Actors dancing around in silly costumes, what kind of celebration is that? It's boring enough to put all of the Stormlands to sleep!”

Beric just stared in shock and surprise and quickly nodded, hoping the king would be satisfied with his silent agreement. His Grace didn't seem to expect a reaction at all, he continued his monologue, vaguely directed at Renly, still walking a few steps behind. “But why am I telling you that? You're a knight, not some pompous windbag like my brother!” He let go of Beric's shoulder to wave his squire over to bring him a drink. “Tell me, do you prefer perfumed harlots dancing around or a good, old-fashioned tourney?” King Robert asked, then took a swig from the flask he was handed.

“Tourneys, Your Grace,” Beric answered honestly, without hesitation. There was no doubt that this was the right thing to say.

“You hear that?” the king shouted over his shoulder. “Everyone likes tourneys! Only my damn brother prefers eating cakes in the garden to watching a joust!” He laughed and turned back to Beric. “You're going to compete on my name day? Gods, I can't wait for some fresh wind in the worn-out ranks I see all the time!”

“I will, Your Grace,” Beric said. “I came in 5th last year and I hope I have improved enough to place better this time.”

The king took another pull from his flask, then slammed it against his squire's chest and gestured to get his hunting spear back. “Last year?” He thought for a moment, then his wide smile returned. “You defeated Ser Meryn, didn't you? Now that was a good show!”

Beric shot a careful glance to Ser Meryn, who looked all but happy about the king recalling his loss, but didn't comment on it. “I did, during the name day tourney and once before, at Storm's End, two years ago.”

Robert laughed and looked to Ser Meryn, who stoically walked beside them and tried, with little success, to pretend he wasn't paying attention to the conversation. “You never told me that!” His Grace turned back to Beric, leaning closer, as if he was about to reveal a secret, but spoke much too loud. “He said he 'didn't win' and wasn't very forthcoming about details. As if I'd be surprised he got his rusty arse whipped!”

Thoros had fallen behind to walk next to Renly and he chuckled when he caught a brief glimpse of Meryn Trant's angry face. Renly had noticed it as well and smirked back when he took the flask Thoros offered. “Seems like I'm going to obey the order to have fun, after all,” he whispered and took a quick sip.

The silent but appreciative audience was indeed well entertained as the party continued their way through the Kingswood. His Grace was excited to hear about Beric's success in the Stormlands and the more they talked, the more annoyed Ser Meryn looked. The king missed no chance to compare and every time, Beric came out on top in his eyes. All those tales of victories and glory in combat captivated His Grace enough to forget about hunting or making snide remarks over his shoulder and he paid no attention to his kingsguard's rage quietly boiling either. By now, Renly had given up on holding back his chuckles and Thoros hadn't tried to hide how hilarious he found the situation to begin with.

 

﴾ _____________________________________________________________________________________ ﴿

 

“Thoros, I owe you!”

The king returned from relieving himself on a nearby tree and immediately gestured for his squire to bring him the wine. Once he had his drink, he waved Lancel away with one hand and slapped Beric's back with the other.

“It's refreshing to hear of recent accomplishments, not the same old tales from the toadies at court!”

“I'm glad my company finds your approval, Your Grace,” Thoros replied, lazily taking a slight bow.

The king stepped closer, regarded him carefully, but immediately fell back to his cheerful tone when he spoke. “I'm serious! I should reward you for this!”

Thoros pretended to think for a moment. “Can you legitimize a ward?” he asked, smirking at Beric.

His Grace laughed loudly, then suddenly paused and furrowed his brow. “Can I?” he asked, looking to Renly, as if he took Thoros' joking request into real consideration.

Renly shook his head, dumbfounded by the absurdity of his brother's question. “No, of course not,” he replied after a brief silence. The king still glared at him, apparently waiting for more council on the matter. Renly regarded him skeptically. “Wards can be adopted and named heirs,” he slowly added, just to give some sort of answer.

His Grace kept glaring for a bit longer, then he broke out into hooting laughter. “Now that's what I call good advice from my Master of Law!” he roared. “Are you not far enough down in the line of succession for your taste yet?”

“What does your lineage have to do with _my_ heir?” Thoros interrupted, trying to sound serious and not quite succeeding.

“ _Your_ heir?” His Grace growled, straightening his back and reaching for the hilt of his sword. “Don't forget who you are talking to, priest!”

Thoros laughed, drew his sword and threw his flask over to Renly, who just barely caught it. “I'm very aware, Your Grace,” he gave back with a daring grin.

Ser Meryn immediately drew his sword as Thoros raised his blade and took a fighting stance, but the king sighed and rolled his eyes at his guard. “You stay out of this!” he barked. “We've heard enough of your so-called skill in battle today. I'll be better off defending myself!” He laughed and pointed his sword at Thoros. “Bring it on, old friend!”

Beric just stared, baffled and unsure if he should intervene in a fight between two men who had agreed on him as their prize.

“Don't get your hopes up,” he heard Renly's voice tease and turned around, hoping the king's brother knew what to do. If Renly had such knowledge, he didn't reveal it. All he did was snicker at Beric's expression and shrug. “The best possible outcome here is me being spared from yet another tourney,” he said and drank a sip from Thoros' wine.

“Fuck it!”

King Robert's angry voice drew their attention back to the incipient fight. The combatants had stopped circling each other, their swords were lowered and both men looked up to the crowns of the trees. A moment later, Beric felt the reason for the king's anger, a first drop of rain on his face.

The air had been stale for a while, humid and sticky and not even a slight breeze had rustled the leaves. Now the dead calm was over. The storm Ser Meryn had predicted back at the tavern had reached the Kingswood and it brought more thick, grey clouds, eager to burst. The trees around the hunting party were shaking and bending and their canopy provided little shelter from the onset of drenching rain. In the distance, somewhere out over the Blackwater, thunder was rolling toward the coastline and soon, the storm raging was putting the Stormlands to shame.

“See? This is why you need to be picky with squires!” The king sheathed his sword and stepped closer to Beric. “A _good_ squire would have warned his king of bad weather,” he continued and put an arm around Beric's shoulder to make him look in Lancel's direction. “You'd think boys are all the same if you tell them to keep their trap shut. But don't be fooled by that!” His Grace menacingly glared at Lancel, who had opened his mouth and now just closed it without having started to say anything. “If you're not careful, you end up with a dimwit like that. I don't know how he does it, but he still bugs me without saying a word.” Beric's urge to point out that Lancel had mentioned the prospect of a storm earlier was overruled by common sense and he just quietly nodded. His Grace smiled, satisfied with the wordless answer and let go of Beric.

 

﴾ _____________________________________________________________________________________ ﴿

 

“Ser Meryn has never won any tourney in the Stormlands! And you won them all!”

His Grace spoke so loud in his excitement, every patron of the Old Father's Inn could hear him over their own hushed conversations. “If you were not knighted already, I'd knight you personally, right here and now!” The king raised his mug, the sixth or seventh or tenth, to Beric for a vague toast.

Renly, sitting on the other end of the table, almost spit the laughter he tried to hold back into his wine. Ser Meryn's silent rage had slowly calmed down since they had entered the inn and now he was fuming, just like before.

“Take it as the compliment it is,” Thoros whispered to Beric, noticing his mild irritation at the king's willingness to bestow knighthood while feasting in taverns. “You know you truly earned it and so does everyone else. Even he does,” he added, nodding to His Grace, who waved for another round of wine with one hand and reached for a bowl of sausages with the other. Thoros' glance followed Beric's to his still half-full mug of wine and rested there for a moment. Then Beric carefully peeked over to him, a silent plea in his eyes. Thoros looked to His Grace, heartily devouring a sausage, then reached over, took Beric's mug and chugged down the wine.

“You even won at Mistwood?” the king turned his attention back to Beric, just after Thoros had set the empty mug down again.

“I did, Your Grace,” Beric replied. “I defeated Ser Tymon in the final bout.”

The king furrowed his brow while chewing his sausage, then reached for the mug when the new round arrived. “Ser Tymon, Ser Tymon,” he thoughtfully mumbled and finally shook his head. “Must be one of the Mertyns men.”

“He is, Your Grace,” Beric confirmed. “He is the husband of Lady...”

“The Mertyns,” the king interrupted with a loud sigh. “As loyal as they are boring, ever since Mary's oldest son married that hag who banned fun from their lands.” He glared at Ser Meryn. “Almost as boring as his tales of glory, except it's a much longer story.” Thoros quickly reached over to drink half of Beric's new wine while His Grace looked away.

“It is said that she only got married because she wasn't witty enough to join the Silent Sisters!” The king loudly laughed and turned to Thoros and Beric again.

“I never met her, Your Grace,” Beric said. “I only visited Mistwood once, to attend the tourney House Mertyns held to celebrate the birth of a son.”

The king nodded and poured down the rest of his wine. “They're a dull bunch these days,” he grunted, then cheered up again. “But it works in your favor! If anyone wants to follow your example, he'll have to wait for someone to knock up that woman again!” He slammed the empty mug on the table and glared at his squire. “What is wrong with you, Lady Lancel? Why are you standing there instead of getting new wine?”

Beric shot a quick glance to Thoros, then to his mug, silently begging for help once again. Thoros shrugged and used the king's brief distraction to drink the rest and Beric nodded a quiet thanks to him.

“Don't make that mistake!” His Grace sounded serious when he turned back to Beric after Lancel had hurried away. “I fought a war! I ended the Targaryen rule! And what did I get? A fucking crown that shackles me to that cursed throne and that damned woman!” Thoros tipped his chair back when the king leaned over the table toward Beric, sweeping plates and bowls out of his way. “Don't let anyone tell you to marry a witch just because she's some important lord's daughter! Find a good woman you love and stay out of the game!”

Beric carefully glanced over to Thoros, disbelief and astonishment in his eyes. “I will heed your advice, Your Grace,” he replied. A moment later, he froze in mild shock when Lancel returned with more wine.

“Good. Good!” The king leaned back and grabbed the wine his squire handed him. He drank half of it, then took a deep breath and shot a long glance to his brother. “I wouldn't wish such a cruel fate even on my worst enemy.”

 

Then it was quiet, as if time stood still in the tavern, not even Renly snickered at the king's outburst of gloom.

 

Slowly, Beric reached for his wine, drank a sip, then placed the mug back on the table, much closer to Thoros than it had been before. “One should be wary of witches,” he said, carefully watching the king's expression. Thoros regarded him quizzically from the side, wondering if Beric had lost his mind to continue a conversation that upset His Grace. “I recall a tourney at Fawnton, where Ser Euric swore up and down there was no way he could be defeated, convinced a witch had put a hex on his rivals.”

Silence fell once more and Thoros' glance wandered back and forth between His Grace and Beric. From the corner of his eye, he could see Ser Meryn and Renly holding their breath and Lancel just stood there, not moving at all.

“That fucking moron!” His Grace broke the dead silence, roaring with laughter. “He's made such claims in King's Landing and got his arse kicked by a hedge knight riding a mule!” He chugged down his wine and woke Lancel to life with a wave of his hand. “More wine, or you'll get your ass kicked as well!”

“He was the first one unseated at Fawnton,” Beric said, watching Thoros nonchalantly drink his wine and then reach for his own mug. “Broke two of his ribs and he was still berating his squire about the dangers of witches when he was taken away.”

His Grace laughed even louder and turned to Ser Meryn. “Maybe you should try your luck with that,” he suggested. “Find that witch, make her curse every knight in the realms and maybe you'll finally get a victory under your belt!”

Renly chuckled when Lancel returned with a tray and began to put the mugs on the table. Thoros shot him a brief reproachful glance, silently telling him to stop drawing attention to the double drinking he was doing. When Lancel arrived between him and the king, His Grace suddenly grabbed Lancel's wrist to hold him in place. “Bring ale, you stupid dipshit!” he shouted. “And put that down where it belongs!” Lancel looked confused and still didn't move when the king let go of his wrist. “Gods, why me?” His Grace sighed and rolled his eyes. “What witch have I offended to be cursed with a moron like that?”

“Cersei Lannister, I believe,” Thoros replied with an air of importance, somehow able to keep a straight face.

The king paused, laughed and nodded. “Aye, that was the name...” He slowly turned his head to glare at his squire. “Why are you just standing there? Give Thoros both mugs and get Beric some ale!”

Beric looked like he was struck by thunder and Thoros thought he inched closer, seeking shelter from the storm His Grace might unleash. Lancel didn't fare better, but he had the means to escape, set down the mugs in a hurry and then bolted away. The king cackled, took one of the mugs and used it to shove another over to Thoros. “Drink!” he said cheerfully. “Don't let me sit here in envy!” He raised his wine to toast to Beric. “Wish I had friends like that. Most of mine are not fond of sharing and just drink me dry!”


	8. The Agony After

“What happened to your dislike of wine, cousin?”

Beric turned around, away from the wooden fence separating the archery range from the spectators, to see his grinning cousin stare at the cups in his hand.

“I never said I dislike wine,” Beric gave back. “I just prefer it in moderation.”

Rowland still grinned. “That's why you drink two cups at once?”

The cheer of the crowd swallowed Beric's answer and he turned back to the ongoing round of the competition. He couldn't see the target, but judging by the crowd's reaction, the shot had been aimed very well. The reason the target was blocked from his sight was moving toward him in a not particularly straight line.

“Did I miss?” Anguy drunkenly giggled and took his wine from Beric's hand.

“You didn't,” Beric replied, now able to see the arrow in the distance for himself. Anguy laughed louder, surprised by his own shot, then raised the empty cup.

“I'll get another to prepare for the final round then,” he declared, ducked under the fence and disappeared in the crowd.

“You squire for a commoner?” Rowland snickered, watching the cup Beric still held. “Whose is that? Some farmhand's or...” He broke off when he felt a hand on his shoulder and sheepishly glanced up. Behind him towered the impressive shape of Ser Aydan, his ash blond hair framing the stern look on his face.

 

“My apologies,” Ser Aydan said to Beric, then nodded down to his squire. “Instead of talking about wine, you should find me a cup.” He had barely finished the order when Rowland hurried away. With his cousin no longer standing between them, Beric could see a new brooch holding Ser Aydan's blue cape. It had to have been made after his wedding, as it showed the sigil of House Rainborn, but the stork under the cloud was now accompanied by House Hallsten's smaller falcon.

“It appears we will meet later in the joust,” Ser Aydan continued, his tone as casual as if they were old friends.

Beric was still slightly stunned that a knight of such repute came to him for a chat, but he composed himself and nodded. “And I look forward to it,” he said. “It will be nice to finally get some real competition. If I didn't know better, I'd suspect Ser Naydon went easy on me.”

Ser Aydan chuckled. “Those Northern knights. They are determined, I give them that, but they lack practice. I felt the same way about his brother, Ser Balder, in the first tilt yesterday.” He stretched his neck to look over Beric's head when the crowd loudly booed. Beric's glance followed to the archery range. One of Anguy's competitors had missed the target by a large margin and now cursed and complained and blamed his bad aim on the wind.

“I admit, I have not seen many Northern knights before.” Beric turned back to Ser Aydan. “There are so few to begin with and they rarely travel down South.”

“Maybe you should pay them a visit if they are unwilling to make the long journey,” Ser Aydan replied. “There'll be a tourney in White Harbor, just a few weeks from now. Northerners may be a strange people, but I have fond memories of tourneys held by House Manderly. I won my first notable victory outside the Vale there and am always glad to go back for more.”

Beric quickly took a sip from the wine. This sounded like Ser Aydan was suggesting they travel together, but he needed a moment to decide if that was the right interpretation. The last thing he wanted was to look like a fool by accepting an invitation that hadn't been made. “A trip to the North, I like the sound of that,” he said, trying to keep his tone casual. “But I will have to talk to my companions and see if I can extend my stay in King's Landing.”

“Of course.” Ser Aydan nodded. “And I'd be glad to have more company. It's a long way to White Harbor.” He paused when the crowd roared, this time cheering for a successful shot, then added: “I'm staying in the Black Stag Inn. I'm sure there will be free rooms after the tourney is over, if you need accommodations.”

“Beric stays with his friend, the king!”

Anguy grabbed his bow from where it leant against a fence post and almost spilled the wine he held in the other hand. He somehow managed to lose neither his drink nor his balance when he ducked under the fence to return to the range. Beric and Ser Aydan just stared at him when he emerged on the other side and poured down half the wine.

“What? You said you were staying in the Red Keep!” He shrugged with a grin and handed Beric the cup before staggering back to the other archers.

“My friend is drunk. He must have misunderstood. I am staying in the Red Keep, but I'm a guest of Thoros of Myr,” Beric quickly explained. “He invited me to stay for the duration of the tourney. I'll have to talk to him to see if he can extend his hospitality, otherwise I will consider the inn you recommended.”

Ser Aydan nodded and Beric noticed he didn't seem annoyed by Anguy's interruption. If anything, he looked appreciative and Beric had to pull himself together to not burst with pride when he realized that.

﴾ _____________________________________________________________________________________ ﴿ 

 

“You know, there's no denying that your cousin is a snotty little brat, but he might have a point.”

Thoros slapped Anguy's hands away from the straps of Beric's armor to fasten them correctly himself. Anguy tumbled around him, to Beric's other shoulder, spit on the pauldron, wrought with sharp lines of lightning, then tried to polish it with his sleeve.

“Don't give him ideas!” Anguy drunkenly glared at Thoros while continuing his work. “I make a fine squire! He doesn't need anyone else!” He stopped rubbing the already shiny pauldron, turned around, almost tripped on the short way to a table, grabbed a cup of wine and shoved it in Beric's hand when he returned. “See? I think of everything!”

Thoros chuckled and moved on to the straps of the breastplate, Beric shot a skeptical glance at the wine. “I can name a few things that frequently escape your memory,” he said, looking up to Anguy. “My dislike of drinking before a tilt being one.”

Anguy regarded him for a moment, then took the cup back and chugged down the wine. “Doesn't strike me as a problem,” he gave back. “Name another.”

“Sticking around after the joust,” Beric said and got up when Thoros slapped his shoulders to signal he was done with the buckles. “You have a habit of disappearing to the nearest brothel when the winners of the archery competition have the prizes in their hands.”

“I'm still here, am I not?” Anguy raised his chin, as if making a challenge, then tripped and almost lost balance when he stepped backwards to get Beric's shield, painted black with purple markings like lightning.

“You don't have your prize yet.” Thoros followed Beric to help him mount the horse. “You're just this drunk already because I bought the rounds.”

“Maybe you should squire for Thoros instead.” Beric smirked down once he was in the saddle and took the shield Anguy held up to him. “Your priorities seem to line up much better.”

Anguy thought about it with all the serious consideration his intoxication allowed, then he shrugged. “I might. But I will have you know that your rejection wounded me deeply.” He giggled and turned around to stagger toward the table and the bottle of wine waiting on it.

“Your lance, my lord.” Thoros knocked the lance against Beric's shoulder. “As your very attentive and not too forgetful squire, I hereby remind you that Lord Renly is in attendance and might want to compare yours to Ser Loras'.” Beric took the lance and shot him a reproachful glance, then quickly shut his visor, but he still heard Thoros snicker when he rode off to the list.

 

﴾ _____________________________________________________________________________________ ﴿

 

“It seems so much trouble to go through,” Anguy said when Thoros joined him on the fence between the spectator ranks and the lists. “All that armor takes so long to put on for such a short fight.” He offered his bottle of wine to Thoros and looked back to the ongoing joust.

Thoros took a pull, then leaned against the fence. “It can be fun.” His glance followed a black stallion, dressed in a bright red caparison with silver-white oak leaves, the rider's shield painted to match. “It's not the armor that bothers me. It's all those rules.” He drank from the wine again and chuckled. “After I met His Grace, he was awfully entertained by my flaming sword and insisted I try the same with a lance. I saw no reason against it and tried, but it turned out to be rather inconvenient. Still, that one attempt was enough for Stannis to have a rule written, banning 'polearms on fire' at Dragonstone. As if he ever held tourneys...”

Anguy grinned and gestured for the wine, then drank when Thoros gave back the bottle. “Can't say I ever met the man, but from what I hear, I wouldn't be surprised if he also had a rule against fun.” He regarded the second competitor and laughed into the bottle. “Though, that might spare the audience from sights such as this. Is that a knight or the king's jester?”

“That's Ser Allon of House Unremarkable, a proud knight from the Westerlands,” Thoros replied, feigning respect.

Anguy smirked and took another sip while watching the charge of the riders. “Ser Allon The Colorful seems proud of being dressed like a pricier whore from the brothels in Oldtown. What else could he be proud of? I've seen stronger Sand Steeds than the poor thing he rides on and his posture looks bad, even to me, drunk as I am.”

Thoros took the bottle from Anguy's hand. “He's much better at drinking than jousting,” he said. “I have no idea how he made it this far on the lists. But I think that's where it ends for him, even if he makes it through this tilt. In the next round, he'd face either...” He paused to drink, then almost choked laughing as Ser Allon hit the ground right in front of him. “Guess it needs no further speculation then.” Thoros grinned and gave the wine back to Anguy.

 

“Get that painted wench off the lists! I want to see a real joust!”

That was the thundering voice of King Robert rolling over the remains of Ser Allon's shattered pride on the sand, echoing before the defeated knight was even back on his feet. He managed to stand up when a nervous herald arrived to announce the name of the victor and for a moment, it seemed Ser Allon was about to yell at him. He apparently found enough common sense to not give voice to his anger in front of the king and just grumbled into his dented helmet instead. He staggered toward the spectator ranks, still frothing and shoving people out of his way when he was past the fence.

The herald, a small balding man with a voice firmer and stronger than seemed to suit his frail body, shot Ser Allon a last anxious glance, then turned back to the king's chair and began to call out the next tilt.

“Finally! Real knights!” His Grace sounded cheerful when the combatants rode in front of him to show their respect. There was no denying it, both Beric and his opponent looked more knightly than the previous colorful attempt to impress.

Beric's armor was dark and plain, only the pauldrons were decorated with a few sharp lines of silver, a stark contrast to the gaudy embellishments Ser Allon had displayed before. And unlike his horse, Beric's stallion wore simple black and purple regalia, not what could as well have been a dancer's best gown. Ser Aydan rode a snow white mare with a silver-grey mane, adorned with dark blue regalia, and the rider himself wore the traditional armor found in the Vale. Only the darker shade of his tabard, showing the heraldry of House Rainborn, set him apart from the Eyrie's famed knights in House Arryn's sky blue.

A few steps away, Thoros heard Ser Allon curse loudly, then saw him throw his helmet on the ground and give it more dents with his feet. Chuckling, Thoros nudged Anguy, who almost spit out his wine when he looked over, laughing at the unfair fight between a knight and his headwear.

The crowd roared in anticipation when Beric and his opponent went to their position and gave spurs for the charge. Thoros and Anguy turned back to the lists, as amusing as Ser Allon's personal spectacle was.

“Who did you wager on?” Thoros glanced to Anguy from the corner of his eye and took a pull from the wine.

“Both.” Anguy smirked. “I have more faith in Beric's horse, since I'm the one who procured it. But on the other hand...” He paused to drink from his wine, then quickly set the bottle down to cheer when a lance shattered. “...I don't quite trust Beric to not break down in sheer admiration when confronted with a man like Ser Aydan, so I split my bet evenly between the two.”

 

﴾ _____________________________________________________________________________________ ﴿

 

When Thoros returned to his chambers, he found the bed empty and looked around in the room. Beric was further back, by the sideboard and the mirror above it, contorting his neck and shoulders, curiously inspecting the few minor bruises on his chest. He didn't turn around when he heard the door, apparently he had finally found a good angle to regard his reddened badges of honor.

“Does Grandmaester Pycelle not mind you sneaking around in his stockroom?” Beric asked, now looking up from his chest to the mirror to meet Thoros' eyes in the reflection.

“Never asked him,” Thoros gave back, shrugging. “But if he keeps the door unlocked whenever he waddles up to the rookery, he can't care that much.” He came closer, peeked over Beric's shoulder to see what he was looking at and put down a small bowl on the sideboard. When he had left the room, Beric had still been in bed and Thoros hadn't noticed any injuries that needed treatment the day before, after the joust. As soon as his hand let go of the bowl, Beric quickly pulled it closer, then dipped his finger in the ointment to smell it. “Do you want me to go back and find you some firemilk or willow bark, my lord?” Thoros chuckled, glancing at the few bruises and resting his chin on Beric's shoulder.

“That won't be necessary,” Beric replied and began to apply the silky, white ointment to his near-mortal wounds. “I just want to be in best shape for my first Northern tourney.”

Thoros chuckled and quickly pulled the bowl away under Beric's finger. “You're going about it the wrong way,” he said, the firm tone covering up his amusement. “Northerners are a tough and grim people. They'll show more respect if you bear your gruesome scars with pride.”

“You said the same about Valemen,” Beric gave back and recaptured the bowl to continue his treatment.

“And Ser Aydan beat you, so I wasn't that wrong.” Thoros poked around in the ointment until Beric slapped his fingers away.

“It was very close, Ser Aydan said so himself.” Beric stretched his neck again to rub some of the ointment on a barely visible bruise under his chin. “There's no shame in 3rd place, after facing a man with a decade of victories to his name. He even rejected the gold at first and only took it because I insisted. He can't think too lowly of me if he does that.”

“I doubt anyone thinks lowly of you. His Grace was impressed and pleased that you kept your word to place better than last year.” Thoros made another attempt to steal the bowl, but this time Beric was faster and put his hand over it. “And that's not even the end of it,” Thoros continued. “While it takes a lot to find the king's approval on the lists, you accomplished a feat even rarer than that.”

Beric paused and glanced over his shoulder. “I did?” he asked. “Don't tell me it's rare someone asks Ser Allon to adjust his behavior...”

Thoros smirked and shook his head. “That happens quite often”, he gave back. “But Lord Renly only paid this much attention to a tilt two or three times before...” He quickly jumped back to evade Beric's elbow, then did a double take with a worried look to Beric's shoulder. “You should put some on that,” he added, feigning serious concern, then went over to the table and his collection of bottles.

 

When he returned, now with a cup of wine in his hand, Beric was still twisting his head, trying to see what severe wound he had missed. “Where is it?” He looked up to Thoros. “I can't see anything and I don't feel any pain.”

Thoros slowly took a sip from his cup, then put it down on the sideboard and shot a brief glance to the shoulder. “That's strange,” he said, barely holding back the chuckles. “I could have sworn it was there, but it must have been just a trick of the light.”

Beric huffed and his brow furrowed. Before Thoros had a chance to evade the revenge once again, Beric smeared the ointment still on his finger across Thoros' face, vaguely aimed at the cut above the left eyebrow. “Very funny,” he grumbled and turned back to the mirror.

Thoros laughed and reached for his wine. “That won't help,” he said. “No remedy can make me as pretty as you again. I'll have to rely on the Northern approach and frighten my enemies with the display of scars.” He went back to the table under the window and when he sat down, Beric had finished tending his wounds and now put on his shirt.

 

“If I could make a wish and ask for anything in the world,” Beric began and wandered back to bed. “I'd ask for nothing.” He smirked and let himself fall backwards onto the cushions, arms spread out like wings on the fabric of his open shirt.

“Not even for me to stop making bird jokes?” Thoros chuckled and leaned back in his chair.

Beric turned his head to him and regarded him thoughtfully for a moment. “No, I wouldn't,” he said. “I know my mother hen finds amusement in them. I've never been happier and wouldn't deprive you of your silly joy.”

Thoros slowly raised his eyebrows. “Did you just make a bird joke?” he carefully inquired.

Instead of answering, Beric snickered. “Bring me some wine, squire,” he then stunned Thoros again.

“At once, my lord,” Thoros gave back with a grin. He reached for a bottle to fill a second cup. “Ser Aydan must have hit you harder than I first thought...”

“He didn't.” Beric still smiled as bright as the daylight flooding in through the window when Thoros got up and held the filled cup over him. “This year, everything was even better than I imagined. That's reason enough to celebrate, don't you think?” He sat up and took the wine to drink a bit. Thoros returned the smile and ruffled Beric's hair after he lowered the cup from his lips.

“I'm not complaining,” he said. “On the contrary, I like seeing my fledgling this happy, as any hen would.” He sat down next to Beric and a moment later, he was handed the empty wine cup and the fledgling let himself fall back onto the luxurious nest. “A year ago, to the day, in this very same place, you thought your head was exploding and accused me of trying to poison you. It goes without saying that I prefer you like this.”

Beric barely lifted his head to shoot a reproachful glance to Thoros. “A year ago, I could barely recall my own name, I thought a warlock had kidnapped me and I'd be sacrificed to a strange god.” He rested his head back in the cushions and the smile returned to his face when he continued to speak. “This year, I know what happened. I'm just not quite sure yet if I'm remembering a dream.”

Thoros chuckled and got up to return the cups to the table and bring the bottle, still half full, back to the bed. “I assure you it wasn't a dream,” he said. “Though I did mistrust my eyes and ears a few times. You played your cards right with both the king and his brother and did not get dragged into that silly war they've been fighting for years.”

Beric looked up and spotted the bottle when Thoros raised it to take a long swig. “That still feels unreal,” he said and turned around to crawl closer, not moving careful enough for a true attempt to sneak up on the wine. “I never expected the king to take any interest in my achievements or voice so many opinions that mirror my own.”

Thoros brought the halfhearted sneak approach to a quick end by holding the bottle over his shoulder. “I did,” he gave back, sounding more somber for a moment. “You might find it hard to believe, but you have everything His Grace truly wishes for and can never get back. His youth as a warrior who lives for the rush of the battle. Uncounted chances and the freedom to take them, no matter the risk.” He slowly turned around to Beric, who sat on his knees now, holding the bottle and not drinking from it. “The lust for life I'm sure he once had and lost to a throne made of blades long ago.” Beric regarded him, taken aback and a bit puzzled by the sudden change of tone. Thoros shot him a smile and nodded to the bottle. “But that's not your concern. All you need to take away from it is that His Grace agrees with your choices and for good reason. Every scar has a story, even those you don't see. Should you ever question if you're doing the right thing, remember that you have royal approval.”

Beric looked at the bottle, then back to Thoros. “I will,” he said. “I learned to find wisdom hidden between drunk ramblings, though I can't tell how I acquired that skill.” He drank a sip and smirked at Thoros. “And some advice I would heed, even if it didn't come from the king.” Thoros raised his eyebrows, but he didn't need to ask, Beric explained on his own. “I've seen His Grace with his squire. Neither of them seems happy with the arrangement, but they're stuck with it nonetheless. And as much as I admire Ser Aydan, I don't have a clue how he lives with my cousin's big mouth. I'm glad my father allows me to make my own choices and lets me look for a squire who won't get on my nerves.” He paused for another sip, then smiled at Thoros. “Even if that choice is you and Anguy for now.”

Thoros returned the smile, though the sadder thoughts about the king's silent misery lingered. Over his shoulder, he could see the hints of doubt in Beric's eyes, wondering what else he could say to cheer his friend up. “Come here.” Thoros vaguely nodded to the spot next to him. “Share your high spirits with your too sober squire before all that joy overflows.”

As if he had just been waiting to be asked Beric immediately crawled closer and hugged Thoros from behind, the bottle still in his hand. He leaned his head on Thoros' shoulder. “I know of one choice that would not find the king's approval,” Beric said, a satisfied smirk in his voice. “If it had been a real fight between the two of you on the hunt, I'd have wanted you to come out as the winner, not him.”


	9. Northern Beauty, Southern Beasts

“What is so special about this famous 'New Castle' anyway?”

Beric sat in the open flap of the tent, sullenly staring at the fire outside. Two of his guards stayed there to watch it, sitting on a craggy, half buried basalt block, quietly talking and having a drink for the night.

“It is a bit of an oddity, much like the builders,” Thoros replied from his comfortable sleeping place, further back in the tent. “House Manderly hasn't always been...”

“I know, their ancestors came from the Reach,” Beric interrupted. “They were exiled by the Gardeners, came to the North and swore loyalty to House Stark. Maester Jeon told me about it a hundred times when I was a boy.”

Thoros sighed and sat up to take a pull from his bottle. “Are we having a conversation or are you just looking to vent your rage at somebody?”

Beric looked back over his shoulder. “My apologies. You may understand I'm not in the mood for long stories.” He turned back to gaze up to the sky where the black basalt ruins of Moat Cailin almost merged with the dark of the night.

“New Castle is an oddity because it resembles the castles of the Reach,” Thoros said matter-of-factly. “There aren't any other keeps in the North built in this style.”

Beric nodded absently and took a sip from his ale. “So I've come all this way just to see a castle looking like those a few days away from Blackhaven.”

“As far as I know, you came all this way to win a tourney.” Thoros took another pull and leaned back again. “Don't tell me you changed your mind. We'll be in White Harbor soon. You'd regret it if you turned around now.”

“Maybe I should leave the North to the Northmen.” Beric glared at the leaning Drunk Tower as if he was trying to topple it with the sheer force of his will.

“To the Valeman, you mean,” Thoros corrected. He knew neither the Northerners nor their lands were to blame for the growing frustration. Beric had not been impressed by the bleak sight across the shores of the Bite on the ride down the causeway. He had not found the bogs of the Neck as treacherous as the tales said, save being attacked by midges for a good part of the ride. But he held no resentment against the underwhelming surroundings. What really bothered him rode on a horse with their party and just wouldn't shut up.

 

Rowland was sixteen now and Ser Aydan, for reasons that Beric couldn't begin to comprehend, considered him almost ready for knighthood. Ser Aydan spoke highly of his squire's victories in tourneys, but it seemed to be his only consideration. Rowland couldn't possibly have won or even attended enough tilts to justify the never-ending stream of words that poured from his mouth. How could he be ready for knighthood if Ser Aydan caught him more than once making fun of the archers? Most of them were commoners from the settlements of the Stormlands who had rarely traveled this far from home. That was reason enough for Rowland to think he could take them for fools and try to scare them with tales of giants and ice spiders taller than men.

 

Now Beric turned around to look at Thoros. “Did you hear he tried to get the Reed archers to call him 'Ser Rowland' last night when they showed him the tower?” he asked. “He claimed it was a mere formality to wait for his knighthood. Ser Aydan caught him when he said Jon Arryn just hadn't had the time for it yet.”

“I'm not saying he isn't annoying,” Thoros gave back. “If even Anguy complains about his lack of manners and respect, you know it is bad. All I'm saying is...”

“And Ser Aydan laughs and says he finds those antics 'entertaining'! I'd laugh more if my voice had the same power to make him shut up whenever it suits me,” Beric cut him off, speaking louder than intended, loud enough to be heard by the fire. The guards briefly looked over to nod in agreement, then picked up their own quiet conversation again.

“All I'm saying is,” Thoros continued where he had been interrupted and then paused for another swig from his wine. “We'll only have to see him during the tourney and he'll hopefully be too busy to torment us there. We don't have to stick around in the evening. I heard of a brewhouse near the Wolf's Den and I always wanted to try the black beer they serve there. I'm sure we can find an inn nearby, far from the tourney grounds and the Beast of the Vale.”

Beric wanted to answer, but before he opened his mouth, he heard Rowland's voice from afar. “Do you think they ever got the basilisk infestation of the Neck under control?” From the sound of it, he stood by the larger tent the archers and guards shared and Beric could only guess where exactly his cousin was. “I heard some witch brought a live one from Essos and it escaped and laid eggs before she could catch and kill it,” Rowland told the tent. “Maybe you should double the night guard, just in case those beasts made it up here.”

“That's a splendid idea.”

Beric breathed out in relief; that voice belonged to Ser Aydan and he did not sound too entertained anymore.

“Since you know so much about basilisks, you'll keep the guards company,” Ser Aydan added and Beric groaned. Before Rowland came into view and sat down by the fire, Beric turned around and crawled into the tent. He closed the flap, as if there was any hope it could keep Rowland's incessant chatter out, then slumped down next to Thoros and reached for the wine.

“Don't let that cheeky brat win, my lord,” Thoros reminded him. “We've all endured too much to give up now. Just three or four days and we've made it through this trial alive.”

“ _Three_ days,” Beric sharply replied and threw the empty bottle toward his feet. “I'll make sure of that.” He grabbed Thoros' arm and unceremoniously pulled it over to use it as a pillow. “For warmth,” he grumbled, not even halfheartedly getting the formality of an excuse out of the way.

Thoros didn't stop him and just quietly laughed to himself. The closer Rowland drove Beric to insanity, the flimsier these excuses became and they had spent quite a few nights on the road. “We may be in the North, but even here it is summer,” Thoros said. “It can't be that cold.”

“I say it is,” Beric stubbornly mumbled into Thoros' sleeve. “And I will hear no more of it, squire.”

 

﴾ _____________________________________________________________________________________ ﴿

 

Thoros' plan to find an inn far from the hauntings of Rowland Hallsten had sounded so good, so convincing. And it had almost worked out. White Harbor with its whitewashed stone houses, the silhouette of the Wolf's Den and New Castle and the wide cobbled streets illuminated by mermaid lanterns made up for the dreary ride along the shore of the Bite. Thoros was not the only one keen to try the black beer, and it turned out to taste much better than Beric had expected. There had also been a not too shabby inn a few doors down the street, just as they had hoped. Ser Aydan and his men had chosen a different place to stay, an inn much closer to the tourney grounds, where they had agreed to meet friends from Oldcastle. But the peace and quiet didn't last long.

It had only been two days since they had passed through the gate of White Harbor when Beric was considering throwing his cousin into the waters of the White Knife, should he get the chance to do it unseen.

The festivities had not officially begun when Rowland unleashed his newest terror, covertly at first. Though Beric wondered why strangers inquired about his relation to Rowland, he brushed it off as increased interest in rare guests from the South. He continued browsing the wares of the merchants, looking for a trinket or two as gift for his mother. She had always loved jewelry and White Harbor was known to be home to skilled silversmiths, many taking the chance to find customers here. Beric had just purchased a necklace when Thoros' voice from behind put an end to his peaceful stroll.

One of the guards who was watching the horses had heard Rowland talk to a group of pages, claiming to be Beric's squire. The guard had told Thoros, who had then told Ser Aydan and instead of putting an end to this charade, he had chuckled and praised the boy's eagerness to work twice as hard. Even when Thoros relayed further details the guard had overheard, Ser Aydan laughed, said the boy was joking and went back to catch up with old friends from the North. Thoros did not intend to mention those details to Beric, however distant the hope was they would not find his ears. Rowland had been bragging that his knight had dared him to survive a night of wine and women after the tourney, in a brothel called the Lazy Eel.

Thoros knew this place by its reputation and he wouldn't have stepped through its doors, even if the only other option was death. A quick execution, or even one of moderate length, was preferable to the horrors of the Lazy Eel. The only reason the establishment stayed in business was its appeal as a curiosity to travelers who had to see with their own eyes just how bad it was. As if the questionable fame of housing the oldest whores of the realms wasn't enough to keep any man's eel lazy, the brothel was also known for its despicable wine. Daring patrons who understandably abstained from both wine and women still risked their lives by trying the food. If one believed the numerous rumors, a patron was more likely to survive a wildling raid than one of their meat pies.

The tourney had brought many travelers to White Harbor and the tales of the Lazy Eel were passed around among them. Some warned friends to stay far away, others dared rivals to keep the foul food down as a joke. Beric had pondered how this disgusting place sparked such attention when he had heard people talk about it in the brewhouse the night before. Hearing that Rowland claimed he frequented the Lazy Eel and mingled with the less reputable clientele of the city would certainly not go over well with him.

 

Thoros' hope to calm down the situation before it would come to that was short-lived. He had spotted Beric by the merchants and got his attention, but before he made his way through the crowd, Beric was stopped by a stranger and seemed to listen to him. A moment later, he stormed off, one hand on the hilt of his sword, the other closed to a fist. Thoros followed him as fast as the crowd let him and finally caught up near the archery range.

“Where is he?”

Beric's eyes angrily sparkled, searching the crowd for his cousin, no doubt.

Thoros blocked his way to the tents and the horses, where the guard had last seen Rowland. “I'm not going to tell you as long as your hand is where it is,” he calmly gave back, looking down to the hilt of the sword.

“Fine, then get out of my way. I'll find the damned brat myself!” Beric tried to shove him, but Thoros evaded the one-handed push and instead grabbed Beric's shoulders.

“And what are you planning to do when you find him?” he asked, firmly holding Beric in place. “Behead him? That would certainly impress less knightly Northmen, but they are not here. All you'd achieve by starting a fight with a squire is a stain on your reputation and that's the very thing you try to prevent.”

Beric glared at Thoros, then took a deep breath and let go of the sword. “You are right,” he replied, feigning composure. “I shouldn't sully my hands with such matters. Better leave this to the guards. Tell them to find the little rat and throw him into the river. Make sure to mention I'll knight each of them as reward.”

Thoros shook his head and glanced down, making sure Beric had really abandoned the attempt to draw the sword. “That won't make kinslaying any knightlier,” he said. “I know you are angry and rightfully so. But I won't let you run off and ruin your life over a boy's stupid joke.”

“Kinslaying?” Beric's eyes narrowed. “I'll do my bloodline a favor by removing this stain.”

Thoros' grip on Beric's shoulders tightened and he pulled him closer. “He _is_ your cousin, but he is _not_ your squire. It's up to his knight, and if I may remind you, his brother-in-law to reprimand him. Even if all that didn't apply and he was only your bratty cousin, he'd still be a boy and no match for you. You swore an oath to defend the weak, but the weak didn't swear to be well behaved. Take it as a test of your patience and...”

“So you think I should let him get away with this?” Beric sharply interrupted. “Turn a blind eye to his misbehavior, cheer for his victories in tourneys and say he's 'ready for knighthood' because he can swing a sword? If Ser Aydan doesn't mind his unknightly demeanor, it is my duty as kin to step in.”

“I didn't say he doesn't deserve punishment,” Thoros replied. “And I agree that his knight should be stricter with him, but that's neither my decision nor yours. Killing him in front of a hundred spectators isn't the answer. Maybe a taste of his own medicine will cure whatever is wrong with the boy.”

Beric quizzically regarded Thoros. “How would I ruin his good reputation, when he has no such thing?” The prospect of vengeance, even if the suggestion seemed far-fetched, made Beric ease up and Thoros loosened his grip.

“We tell him we heard he was keen on visiting the Lazy Eel to gather some good stories for the long ride home. So we decided to sponsor his adventure and already told the guards to take him to the Lazy Eel when night falls.”

Beric thought for a moment, then he snickered. Apparently, the mischievous approach to revenge sounded better than the path of violence after all. “But if he doesn't believe us, I _will_ tell the guards to drag him there and make sure he doesn't leave before the sun comes up.”

 

﴾ _____________________________________________________________________________________ ﴿

 

When they arrived by the horses, Thoros was almost surprised to still see Rowland there. Or maybe it was disappointment that the kid was really dense enough to think he'd get away with overstepping a line with his jokes unscathed. At least he wasn't spreading more rumors, as they heard when they came closer. Rowland was arguing with a boy not much younger and the disagreement appeared to be over Beric's horse.

“It's not _your_ horse,” they heard the boy say. “Why don't you mind your knight's business and let me do my work?”

“And how do you know it isn't my horse?” Rowland barked back. “Maybe my knight is very rich and gave it to me for my good service.”

The boy put down the bucket he carried and dropped the brush into it. “Because the pages said you arrived on a black mare. This is a brown stallion.”

Rowland made a step toward the boy in an attempt to appear intimidating, in which he miserably failed. His unwilling opponent just sighed and rolled his eyes. “Fine, it's my knight's horse and he doesn't appreciate it if some commoner lays his filthy hands on it.”

 

“I am _not_ your knight,” Beric interrupted, trying to sound as stern as Ser Aydan and to his astonishment, it seemed to work. Rowland swirled around, his eyes wide in shock, and he was lost for words. “Your knight was looking for you and couldn't find you. Last I heard he complained about having to get his own wine,” Beric added, just barely hiding the amusement over his triumph.

Rowland shot a brief angry glance to the boy, then to Beric and Thoros. “Where is he?” he sheepishly mumbled. Thoros silently nodded toward the archery range, where Ser Aydan had not been all day and wouldn't be now. Rowland quietly cursed under his breath and then quickly ran off.

“So this is your horse, my lord?” the boy asked and picked up his bucket.

“It is,” Beric said. “My apologies for my cousin's behavior. I fear he lacks the manners to apologize himself.”

“May I continue then?” The boy fished for the brush in his bucket. “Snobby squires are part of the job, but Lord Manderly doesn't pay me per argument, he pays per combed horse.”

“Of course, carry on.” Beric gave him a brief nod, then turned back to Thoros. “Whether we condemn the brat to a night in the Lazy Eel or not, there is absolutely no way I will ride another two weeks in his company.”

Thoros, leaning against a wooden column and sipping his wine, shrugged. “You're not getting any arguments from me,” he said. “I could spend the rest of my life without his company and die happy.”

Beric sat down on a bench next to the column and sighed. “How do we get Ser Aydan to travel back South without us? He seems to enjoy his role as my travel guide.” He looked up to Thoros, his eyes begging for an answer.

“Tell him you want to see that great wall of ice,” Thoros gave back. “He may gladly visit White Harbor every two or three years, but that's for the tourneys. He likes his Southern comfort too much to stick around without those.”

Beric's thoughtful face softened and he slowly nodded. “You know, I would really like to see that wall,” he said. “Who knows if I'll ever travel this far North again? I should take the chance while I'm here.”

Thoros raised his eyebrows and took a pull from his wine. “I wouldn't mind taking a look, but are you sure it's a good idea to travel with such a small party? It's probably another week or two on the road and I don't know the North very well. Anguy really hates it up here, so I doubt he'd come with us.” Beric furrowed his brow again and gestured for the wine. Thoros handed it over and thought for a moment. “We could ask around,” he suggested. “Maybe someone else will be going in that direction after the tourney...”

 

“If I may?” The boy had finished grooming the horse and stepped away from it toward Beric and Thoros, who both looked over, nodded and shrugged.

“My family's keep is not far from Last Hearth and I will return there after the tourney. I can serve as a guide, for the right price.”

Thoros and Beric exchanged a surprised glance, then looked back to the boy. “Did you say keep?” Beric asked.

“I did, my lord,” the boy replied. “My family also rents out rooms to travelers, if that interests you.”

“It does,” Beric said, though it was not just the prospect of a place to stay that had caught his attention.

“You are surprised to see a noble serve as a stable boy,” the boy interpreted Beric's glance and got a nod as silent answer. “My house has never been rich to begin with and two years ago, my father fell ill. I take any work I can get now and Lord Manderly pays well enough for help during tourneys to make it worth the long way.”

“So you are looking to become a page?” Beric concluded.

The boy smiled and shook his head. “I'm not, my lord. I follow the Old Gods and would not trade my faith for knighthood.”

Beric returned the smile and looked up to Thoros. “I'm rather used to the company of foreign gods,” he said and got up from the bench. “Would Lord Manderly mind if you accepted a more gainful opportunity for the time of this tourney? I'd like to keep you around before we travel together...” He paused, realizing he didn't even know the name of the boy he was trying to hire.

“Leiff Warryng,” the boy helped him. “And Lord Manderly would call me a fool for rejecting it.”

 

﴾ _____________________________________________________________________________________ ﴿

 

They had retired to their room in the inn almost two hours ago and despite the late hour, Beric had forgotten any claims to need sleep. He was in his bed, but he had not even tried to shut his eyes or his mouth. Thoros had abandoned his attempt to get rest and found them new drinks after an hour of listening, as Beric wasn't fooled by him pretending to have fallen asleep.

Now Thoros stood by the window, watched the street and the houses illuminated by moonlight and listened to the open book that was Beric. After the hardships of the way to White Harbor, it was nice to hear a more uplifting story and sleep could wait a while a longer when Beric was in such a good mood.

Rowland's misguided prank had not reached the large audience they had thought at first. That had not been for Rowland's lack of determination, but the fact that he could no longer torment the archers at night. Anguy didn't care about Rowland's latest misbehavior, regardless of victim. He had run out of patience and saw only the chance to finally get his revenge. Six archers against one big-mouthed squire ensured that there was hardly time to spread rumors, shortly after Rowland had started his quest.

Throughout the day, parts of Ser Aydan's armor had gone missing, strangers had given Rowland wrong leads where to find them and when they turned up somewhere else, they were in places hard for Rowland to reach. The helmet had been on top of a merchant's stand and Rowland found it filled with mead once he climbed up. A pauldron had been re-purposed as a flower pot on a fence near Lord Manderly's chair and the lance rested in perfect balance on a wooden column, twice the height of a man. Before the joust started, while Rowland was hunting pieces of armor, two of the archers had managed to hide even Ser Aydan's horse in another knight's tent. Rowland had tried to not let his master know he was losing a battle against better pranksters and struggled to get everything in order before the chaos was noticed, with little success. And finally, after two weeks of laughing it off, Ser Aydan had enough of it and gave his squire a stern talk.

Not only Anguy's conquest of vengeance for the constant annoyance contributed to Beric's high spirits. The comforts of having a page who knew what he was doing added to it as well.

 

“Why does he have to be a Northerner?”

Beric paused in his pondering and looked over to Thoros. “There are knights who follow the Old Gods here, aren't there? They've surely been pages and squires before.”

“There are,” Thoros gave back while his glance followed a flock of seabirds, disappearing behind the grey slates of a roof, maybe returning to the shore from looking for food at the Fishfoot Yard down the street. “But they are as rare as true friends, even here in the North. Most follow the Seven and live on Manderly lands. The boy said he's from the Lonely Hills by the Last River. There's probably more giants than knights this close to the Wall.”

Beric rolled on his stomach and stretched his arm out for Thoros' wine. “He'd make such a good squire,” he continued when he got the bottle. “He knows what to do without being told.” He paused to drink a few sips. “And he doesn't talk all the time.”

Thoros chuckled and turned around. “And he's sober, unlike Anguy and I.”

Beric pouted and gave the wine back. “I never complained about that, did I?” Thoros answered with a long knowing look, but didn't say anything. “Fine, maybe it bothered me on a few occasions,” Beric admitted. “But he'd still be nothing like Rowland, even if he drank a few cups every now and then.” He stared at Thoros, apparently wanting him to confirm the assessment.

After another swig from the bottle, Thoros came over the few steps to the bed to sit down on the edge, next to Beric. “My poor fledgling,” he said, smirking, and stroked his friend's hair. “You've found the perfect squire and now the gods themselves stand in your way.”

Beric quietly grumbled and thought for a moment, then he looked up with a daring spark in his eyes. “We'll see about that. I have a week on the road to convince them otherwise.”

 

﴾ _____________________________________________________________________________________ ﴿

 

“It's not very knightly to gloat, you know?”

Thoros leaned against a fence by the lists, a cup of wine in one hand, picking splinters left behind by broken shields in the melee off his cloak with the other.

“I'm not gloating,” Beric informed him from the back of his horse. “I'm glad to see justice served for all we have suffered.” He took the shield Leiff handed him and ignored Thoros' doubtful smirk. Instead, he looked over to the tents, where his cousin, strangely quiet and subservient today, was scrubbing a pauldron. “I just wish the lists were a bit muddier, so he'd have more penance to do.”

“I apologize, my lord. How could I mistake that for gloating?” Thoros laughed and drank from his wine, then glanced down to a bag on his belt and back up to Beric. “You should reconsider and let me place the bet. You could easily double...”

“It's enough if you and Anguy are reckless with your winnings,” Beric firmly cut him off. “And I want to keep that bag as a memento. Ser Aydan said nobody unseated him for almost four years and I broke his streak earlier today.”

Thoros lowered the cup from his lips and shook his head with a reproachful glance. “You'd still have the bag,” he slowly said and subtly nodded to Leiff, who had stepped back from the horse after checking all buckles. Treating a bag filled with gold as a keepsake of victories was all but the right way to win the boy over and luckily, Beric understood the hint that he did nothing to further his goal.

“Aye, I would,” he said, not changing the confident tone. “But who do you suggest pays for food and lodging on the way North if you gamble the winnings away?”

The smile returned to Thoros' face and quickly grew into a daring grin. “Are you saying there's a chance you won't win? After your triumph over Ser Aydan I thought that was set in stone.”

Beric smirked and shrugged, as much as he could in his armor. “Maybe he went easy on me earlier. Maybe I just got lucky. Maybe I underestimate how tough Northern knights truly are and will learn that lesson the hard way.” He pulled the reins and turned the horse around. “Wouldn't it diminish the thrill of wagering on me if you knew the outcome for certain?” he added, then he rode away to the lists.

 

﴾ _____________________________________________________________________________________ ﴿

 

“He sure is persistent, I give him that.”

Leiff followed Thoros to the fence after Beric had left to take his position.

“And you aren't tempted by his offer, I take it?” Thoros regarded the boy thoughtfully while the herald stepped before Lord Manderly to announce the final round of the tournament.

Beric didn't exaggerate with his praise, Leiff would indeed make a good squire, not only in comparison with the monster Ser Aydan would knight one day soon. Where Rowland outtalked a maester with at least six links to his chain, Leiff was quiet and respectful and never interrupted his lord. Working on tourneys had also taught the boy the tasks required by knights, and he carried them out diligently, often without being told. Thoros couldn't tell if it was Beric's generous payment or simply habit, but Leiff even went beyond his assignment whenever he found the time. Instead of idly waiting for orders, he refilled the quiver for Anguy and brought him and Thoros new wine.

Leiff smiled and shook his head. “I am tempted, every time a knight makes the offer. Every tourney I help at, there's at least one who will try.”

“And what makes you reject them?” Thoros asked, now curious if Beric's quest was in vain.

Leiff turned to face him for a long, thoughtful glance. “I do not dream of knighthood,” he gave back after a moment. “I can't afford such a lifestyle with my responsibilities at home. My father won't see the next winter and the burden of feeding my mother and siblings will be mine alone. What tempts me is not the prospect of fame or glory. It's the thought how much gold I could get by selling the armor and horse and knights don't like to hear that.”

 


	10. Summer By The Wall

The room was small and modest with dark grey brick walls without decorations, two narrow windows, and a thick door made of withered pine wood next to a small hearth. There was a sideboard with a metal basin on it and a dull mirror that caught a blurry reflection of the flickering flames. Pointing toward the fireplace stood two beds; next to each a window with faded curtains that had been a darker green long ago. The beds had squeaked when Thoros and Beric sat down on them, but they were soft and clean. On a lone table under one of the windows sat a well-thumbed old book, 'The History of the North'.

Beric had been in high spirits as they had ridden up the Kingsroad. Finally free of Rowland's company, he had been laid back and chatty and took the chance to sample the local cuisine in taverns. His good mood had begun to fade once they had reached Frostspear Hall, the Keep of House Warryng, more with each hour they stayed.

Now, Beric's demeanor suited the room they had retired to when night fell. He was quiet and introspective and was no longer putting in any effort to smile. Though he hadn't shared his thoughts, Thoros knew what was troubling him. Beric was distraught over what Leiff had been showing them all day and tried to come up with a way to make everything better.

Frostspear Hall was a small keep sitting atop the Northern peak of the Lonely Hills, overlooking the desolate banks of the Last River. Only a few dozen people lived here, though the keep had room to house twice as many. Most of the inhabitants were hunters and guards. Some of the buildings lining the courtyard looked almost abandoned; a few of them were in desperate need of repair. There were also many empty cages in the rookery. Only twelve ravens remained of what had once been a large flock. Leiff had sent one of the birds to Castle Black to inform the Lord Commander of the planned visit. It fell to him since Frostspear Hall had not had a maester for the past seven months.  
  
Their old maester had died from a fever, Leiff had told them, and the Citadel had not replied to the request to assign another by now. Instead the nanny, an old woman with some knowledge of herbal remedies, took care of Leiff's father. Beric and Thoros had not met Lord Frydrick Warryng, as his fading health did not allow him to leave his bed and greet guests. They had been introduced to Lady Hannah and Leiff's younger siblings: the eldest, Benjen; and the sisters Dayana and Wynne. Where other children were excited and curious to meet travelers from far away realms and begged to be told stories of adventures, these children were unenthusiatic and disinterested in their guests. Benjen was twelve and had the same dark hair and eyes as his brother. He spent most of the day in the yard training with bow and arrow. A pair of hunters and one of the guards had taken it upon themselves to instruct the boy. The older girl, Dayana, sat at a table reading or sewing while watching her little sister play with a ragged doll.

  
Beric had put up a brave front. He had smiled, had made polite small talk. He had complimented the food that had been served in the evening. Had tried to not to think about the fact that it could have fed the family for a few days, rather than a single guest for one night. Now he sat on the edge of the bed Thoros lay in and his face spoke the volumes that had not crossed his lips all the day.  
  
“You can't just hand them a bag full of coins,” Thoros answered the unspoken question that lingered between them. “Northerners are a proud people. It would be seen as demeaning to treat them as beggars, no matter how much your gold would help.”  
  
Beric thoughtfully nodded, pulled his cloak tighter together and eyed Thoros' wine. The fire in the hearth was enough to keep the small room warm and cozy, yet Beric went through amusing lengths to suggest he was freezing without saying so. He kept adjusting his cloak, rubbing his hands together, even pretended to shudder a few times. Thoros didn't have to guess what that was all about either. Beric was upset and looking for shelter from the storm raging in him, but tonight, he would have to blink first. His tower of strength grew tired of needless excuses and having to make invitations even with wide open doors. There was no need to keep up appearances here and if Beric wanted to act coy, fine, that was a game Thoros could play as well.  
  
“It's almost empty,” he said and handed over the wine.  
  
Beric hesitated, but he drank a small sip, saving the last one for Thoros, then returned the bottle to him. “But I can't just leave them like this. The lord is very ill, the maester is dead and they can barely fill the pantry enough to feed their people.” Beric watched Thoros empty the wine and put the bottle down on the floor. “The hunters have to fear wildling attacks each time they leave the keep and the Boltons do nothing about it.” He rubbed his hands together, then wrapped his arms around his ribs, pretending to shiver.  
  
“The Umbers do,” Thoros retorted, watching Beric's amusing antics. “Their lands are between the Wall and the forests the Warryng men hunt in. They are known to take pride in defending the North against wildlings and from what I hear they're quite good at it. I guess Lord Bolton thinks that's enough to keep people safe.”  
  
“He's their liege lord!” Beric's brow furrowed. “It is his responsibility. He shouldn't turn a blind eye just because House Umber conveniently takes care of their own lands and call that 'enough'. Clearly, it wasn't. The raiders just learned to go around Last Hearth, and now they pillage other settlements instead.”  
  
“I agree.” Thoros shrugged and leaned back; his gaze following a fur Beric had grabbed and was slowly pulling closer, yet another act in the grand scheme to be offered the closeness he sought. “It shouldn't be Lord Umber's burden to protect the lands of Bolton bannermen. But it isn't yours either. There is not a whole lot you can do.”  
  
“Not a lot, but there has to be something,” Beric cut him off, then paused and thought for a moment. He not so subtly moved the seized fur over his thighs.

Thoros smirked to himself, then nonchalantly handed Beric another small fur. “Does the climate of the Red Mountains spoil you so much that you freeze here before we have even caught a glimpse of the Wall?”

Beric quickly took the fur and shot Thoros a snide glance, then he lightened up. “At Castle Black they have ravens,” he said, as if it was a great revelation. “Ravens trained to fly to castles outside the North.” Thoros nodded; the Night's Watch had the means to send word to any place in the realms, there was no big secret to that. “Maester Jeon has friends at the Citadel,” Beric continued. “If I can send him a message he might be able to hasten the arrival of a new maester here.” He looked at Thoros, hoping to find approval for his idea.

“Aye, that's a good plan,” Thoros said. “Your maester seemed very interested in medicine when I visited. If you tell him of the situation, I'm sure he'd know the right man to send.”

Beric, now looking less gloomy, remembered to pretend he was freezing and went back to arranging the fur on his legs. Thoros watched for a while, then he smiled and sighed. “Do you want to sleep here tonight?” he asked, ostensibly calm and polite. Beric immediately raised his eyes from the fur and stopped to tug on its edges. He thoughtfully regarded Thoros and shot a quick glance to the empty wine bottle before looking back up.

“It is very kind of you to ask,” he replied, feigning mild surprise at the offer. “It is rather cold out here and I'm not used to...”

“Oh, stop it.” Thoros laughed and inched over, closer to the wall to make more room on the bed. “Get in here, Lord Frostbite. You know I won't let you 'freeze to death'.”

Beric pointedly raised his eyebrow in a weak attempt at reproach, but he quickly obeyed the jesting order and covered himself with the furs on the bed. “That is very knightly of you,” he mumbled into the pillow.

Thoros chuckled and put the small fur Beric had abandoned over his head. “Call it 'knightly' if you must,” he gave back. “I call it 'being a friend'. And now shut your trap, I want to get some rest before we ride down to the Wall.”

 

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Across the horizon the Wall stretched before them as far as they could see; an endless white ridge made even brighter by the afternoon sun. It seemed to cut off the sky abruptly, as if the world ended there and a firmament was not needed beyond the sharp edge of ice. Up there the fog looked like the Wall had torn rags from passing clouds and trapped them to disguise its true height. A single dark line ran down through the white of the Wall; the wooden stairs and the elevator connecting the lookouts on top to the ground. From the distance Castle Black looked like a child's toy; its towers dwarfed by seven hundred feet of ice though it was the largest stronghold the Night's Watch maintained.  
  
They had left Mole's Town in the morning to explore the surrounding area and to pay a visit to Queenscrown before returning to their true destination; the Wall. Summer or not, it was colder out here than Beric had expected and he pulled his black velvety cloak tighter together. He stood a few steps away from the small camp the guards were making. Not to stay for the night, just to warm up for a short while.  
  
“This is all made of ice? There's no rock underneath it?”  
  
Beric turned around to his companions, waiting for an answer.  
  
“Not here, my lord”, Leiff replied. “It is built over the rocks and hills near other castles. Hoarfrost Hill, Greyguard, the Shadow Tower and Westwatch-by-the-Bridge. Still, it's only the foothills. Most of the Wall is just ice.”  
  
While the guards had arranged larger boulders and a fallen tree as seats, Thoros had set up the stove over the crackling fire in the pit. Beric's glance got caught on the pot when Thoros began pouring his wine into it, the flames greedily licking the few drops that spilled.  
  
“Is anyone injured?” Beric inquired when Thoros put down the empty flask near a boulder and went to his horse to dig through the saddle bag.  
  
“Injured? No, why?” Thoros looked up briefly, puzzled by the question, then continued his search.  
  
“Then why are you boiling wine if there are no wounds to treat?” Beric skeptically watched as Thoros found a few small bags and returned to the fire with them.  
  
“He's making mulled wine,” Leiff explained. “It's made with sugar and spices and you drink it hot.”  
  
“You didn't think I was planning to become a spice merchant when I bought all of this in Mole's Town, did you?” Thoros laughed and began to open the bags and season the wine. “Warms you up in no time and gets you drunk just as fast.” He paused and regarded Beric with a smirk. “A double-edged sword, one might say.”  
  
Beric raised an eyebrow. “If the warlock is well entertained with his concoctions, I'll go and see that we have a warm place for the night.” He nodded to one of the guards, then looked back to the Wall. “I'd rather stay under the roof of the Night's Watch than ride back to Mole's Town. One night underground was enough for me.” He let Leiff help him in the saddle when the guard had led the horses to him, then waited for the boy to climb on his own. Thoros absently nodded and kept throwing spices into the pot. “We won't be long,” Beric added. “I'll let the Lord Commander know to expect us by nightfall. And I want to see that Wall up close now. That's why we're here, after all.”  
  
Thoros looked up from his stove with a smirk. “Just don't lick it,” he said, then went back to stir the wine with a stick. Beric threw him an admonishing glance then pulled the reins and left with Leiff and one of the guards.

 

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When Beric returned to the camp, he could smell cinnamon, cloves and a faint hint of orange in the cold air. The guards who had stayed here were sitting around the fire pit. All but one held a steaming mug, fingers wrapped tightly around them to keep warm, carefully sipping the hot wine. The pot had made room over the flames for a few rabbits, spoils from the hunt in small forest near the abandoned village of Queenscrown. The smell of the roast mixed with the wine's sweet scent greeted Beric when he reached the camp and jumped off the horse, followed by Leiff and the guard.  
  
Thoros had just handed the last of the guards a mug and looked up from the pot, steaming on a pile of charred twigs and ash next to the fire pit. He smirked when he saw Beric sniffing the air. Apparently he was less suspicious of the concoction and more intrigued by it now.  
  
“It smells much better than I expected,” he said and sat down on the log next to Thoros, curiously glancing at the pot. “I will try it, if you have enough for us all.” Then he spotted a guard's helmet next to the fire pit. It was filled with mushrooms and a bundle of carrots from the merchant in Mole's Town. “But what is that supposed to be?”

Thoros shrugged and took a new mug to fill. “We wanted to make stew,” he said and handed the returning guard the hot wine. “Then we realized we only have one pot.” He nodded to a rabbit on a rock next to the fire, skinned but not yet on a stick to be roasted. “It will have to wait and probably taste of wine, but that's still better than what I hear about the food they serve at Castle Black.”  
  
Leiff had led the horses back to the others and now sat down by the fire and nodded. “I've been to Castle Black before. Their stew is awful. I was wary when I only saw and smelled it, but the taste was even worse.”  
  
“Then why did you try it?” Beric passed a mug from Thoros to him.  
  
Leiff took the wine and blew the steam away before taking a sip. “That's a long story, my lord,” he said. “I would not want to bore you with it.”  
  
“I'd like to hear it,” Beric replied with a smile. “I doubt I'll be bored.”  
  
Thoros filled the two last mugs with wine and gave one to Beric, who took it and smelled the spicy steam before carefully drinking a bit. He looked back to Leiff and gave him a small nod, reassuring him he really wanted to hear the tale about the Night's Watch's bad stew.  
  
Beric showed determination in the courtship of his 'perfect squire'; Leiff had been right about that. Ever since they had left White Harbor Beric had talked about his time as a squire, his first victories in tourneys and how proud they made him and his father. He also hadn't tired of pointing out that Thoros' worship of a foreign god didn't bother him at all and they both had respect for each other's faith. Beric was careful not to mention prizes of tourneys. However, he was more than generous when they stayed in inns. And he asked about Leiff's life, listened to his tales of the North; not out of politeness, but with genuine interest.

  
“As you wish, my lord.” Leiff took another sip from his wine. “When I was younger my father took me and my brother to White Harbor. We ate in a tavern, the Golden Trident, right by the gate. Benjen _hated_ the fish soup. He struggled and cried when we tried to make him eat it, so father gave up and ordered us stew.” He smiled and regarded the helmet with the mushrooms and carrots. “It was the best stew I ever ate. I recall it had mushrooms, bacon, carrots, pepper, and peas.” His glance wandered back from the helmet to Beric. “When I returned to White Harbor to work at the tourney, I went to that tavern and asked for this stew. But what I was served was not what I remembered. I asked about it and was told they had a different cook.”

“And they said the old cook had been sent to the Wall?” Beric asked.

Leiff nodded. “That's what one of the patrons claimed,” he said. “When I first took travelers to visit the Wall, I was hoping to find the cook there, so I could ask for the recipe. After tasting their awful swill, I doubted the claim. So I asked the Sworn Brothers if a man from White Harbor had joined them in the past year. They even asked the Lord Commander when I told them why I wanted to know, to find out if he was at the Shadow Tower or Eastwatch-by-the-Sea. But he wasn't there either.”

One of the guards had stood up to take the rabbits off the fire, and another had begun to cut the mushrooms and carrots after Thoros had given the now empty pot to him. Leiff nodded a thanks when he took the rabbit leg the guard offered and continued the tale. “The next time I visited White Harbor, I asked around among merchants, hoping they'd have more reliable information than sailors and I was in luck. Several of the Golden Trident's suppliers had heard the cook had inherited a tavern from a cousin or an uncle. They were sure he went there to run it, but none of them knew where it was.” He sighed and took a bite from the rabbit leg.  
  
Thoros smirked when he saw Beric's face light up. He was sensing another chance to convince Leiff of the advantages he'd have as a squire. They had played this little game since they had departed from White Harbor and it had been quite amusing at times. Thoros wondered if Leiff did this on purpose and said just the right things. Invitations for Beric to make another attempt at winning him over. The kid was smart; Thoros had no doubt about that. Maybe this was Leiff's test to find a knight truly worthy of him.  
  
“If you'd travel with a knight, you could visit many taverns all across Westeros,” Beric said, not trying to disguise the repeated offer to be that knight as casual chat this time. “You might find the one your cook inherited...”  
  
Leiff laughed between bites. “I might,” he replied after he had swallowed. “But I can't leave my family to search for a stew, my lord.”  
  
Thoros quietly chuckled into his mug of mulled wine. This bout went to Leiff, as all others had, but Beric didn't look like he had any intention to yield. He smiled and nodded and said he understood, as he had during each exchange before. If this was a test of his patience, he held up exceptionally well, Thoros thought. Should Leiff give in and accept the offer, Beric would truly have earned it. And he'd have made entire legions of knights look like hotheads to boot.

 

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The sun had almost set when they had reached Castle Black, but there had still been a small bustle between the tall black towers and the sturdy timber keeps lining the yard. Lord Commander Mormont had personally welcomed the rare guests and had his steward show them their quarters in the King's Tower. The rooms, though more comfortable than those of the Sworn Brothers, felt forlorn and forgotten, as if they had not housed any visitors in years. And this was not the only place that reeked of past glory, as the short tour of the castle revealed.  
  
After their arrival, Leiff had left Thoros and Beric in the hands of the Night's Watch's Lord Commander. He had stayed in the yard, to chat with a group of recruits and watch their training with bows. Beric had taken the chance to ask about sending a raven and the Lord Commander had granted the request. The way to the rookery and Castle Black's maester led past the towers and the bad shape of the buildings was visible when they came closer. One was leaning like Moat Cailin's Drunk Tower, a broken battlement and stones scattered around it. Another, the tallest and slimmest, had looked well maintained from the distance, but turned out to be crumbling, with cracks in its walls and holes in the roof.  
  
“It is not what you expected, is it?”  
  
Lord Commander Mormont stood on the parapet walk outside the rookery, and let his glance drift across the yard, where recruits had moved on to train with their swords.  
  
“I was not sure what to expect,” Beric hesitantly replied. “I have heard tales, as anyone has. The maester read them to me when I was a boy, about the Long Night and the Battle for the Dawn. But frankly, I didn't give them much thought, not more than any other stories of old.”  
  
“And they say 'the North remembers'...” The Lord Commander sighed with a sad smile. “Old tales, that's all we are these days, I'm afraid.” He looked to Beric and Thoros, who watched the recruits below try to follow instructions. “There were times when they were true. It was honorable to serve the Night's Watch and many knights and nobles took the black by free will. Nowadays...” Mormont paused when a recruit dropped his sword for the third time and was loudly told to pay more attention by the veteran ranger. “...we are lucky if one out of ten recruits sent to us has ever seen a real sword before.”  
  
  
“I am surprised by your low numbers,” Beric said, still watching the small group in the yard. Some of them were close to his age, a few looked even younger and not one of them showed any skill with the sword. The Night's Watch seemed to take any recruit they could get, yet the Lord Commander had mentioned that only three out of nineteen castles were manned. “The tales said there were once ten thousand men on the Wall. I know, this was long ago, but I didn't think there would be as few left as you have told me.”  
  
“The summer makes people forget the old stories.” Lord Commander Mormont sighed. “Wildlings don't warrant such caution, they say; the Wall is all the realms need to keep the savages out. You'd think the North would remember that there are other dangers lingering in the Lands of Always Winter. But when so much time passes, even the North begins to forget.” It almost sounded like a joke, but his eyes looked resigned. “Our vow forbids men from taking wives, fathering children and owning lands. Those things are more compelling than honor and duty when no old enemy awakens to threaten the realms of men.” He wandered along the parapet walk to the wooden stairs leading to the yard, and Thoros and Beric followed him.  
  
“But the tales of honor and glory were kept alive,” Mormont continued. “And taking the black became a chance for redemption, a noble cause to make good on past transgressions.” He stopped when he reached the yard and absently glanced over to the recruits ending their training. “Now, that has made us a convenience. A way to get rid of thieves and rapists and hide away all the Stones and Rivers and Snows.” He looked up to the rookery, where the old blind maester was feeding the birds with the assistance of a boy, maybe fourteen or fifteen of age. “It used to be a choice to join us, one honorable men made with pride. But times have changed.” His glance slowly wandered back down to the yard and followed the recruits on their way to a larger building. “Most of these lads were never given a choice. Death or the Wall, that's all they could choose. We're an order of unwanted sons now, some rejected for blood, others for deeds. There is no more honor here. A home for those that won't be missed elsewhere, that's all you find in the Wall's shadow these days.”

 

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The Lord Commander's somber words had served as appropriate warning for what his guests would find in the common hall. The crows hunched over bowls of stew on the long tables were but a pale shadow of the knights and heroes from Maester Jeon's old tales. Most of the black brothers sat in small groups and paid little attention to the guests from the South. At most, they huffed and sneered quietly when they walked by or shot snide glances across the room. One table stood out for being more lively, some younger men and the recruits from the yard sat there and ate. This was where Leiff went after one of the crows waved him over, so Thoros and Beric followed him there.  
  
  
Leiff knew several of the men from previous visits and introduced them when Thoros and Beric sat down with them. Unlike the veterans on the other tables, this group was more welcoming to the guests Leiff had brought. The one exception was a tall, burly lad who towered over his brothers and had shoulders broad enough to take the seats of two men. When Thoros and Beric had sat down across from him he had paused shoveling stew into his mouth. Not to say anything, just to draw their attention and make sure they would see him rolling his eyes.

“You must excuse Gundar, my lord,” a redhead Leiff had introduced as Sedric Flowers said and snickered. “The rangers called him a pansy even though he took his vow and now he's angry to still be stuck with us on his shift.”  
  
“I'm not a pansy!” Gundar growled and leaned over the table to yell more directly at Sedric's face. “You Southern boys are, the lot of you! If you had any guts, you'd go with me. The Lord Commander allowed it. Now what's your excuse?”  
  
“I'd go with you,” a young boy, one of the recruits from the yard, firmly declared. “We can go after I've taken my vow, when I'm allowed to leave for the night.”  
  
“You're a Snow!” Gundar turned to him. “Of course you're not afraid!”  
  
Beric exchanged a surprised glance with Thoros. Gundar was a bear of a man, only a year younger than Beric, but he looked older, more seasoned. He'd not have seemed out of place among the veterans on the other tables. The boy he spoke to was at best half his size, skinny and pale and no older than Leiff. But there was no ridicule in Gundar's voice. The respect he showed for the kid was as genuine as his disdain for everyone else.  
  
“It's those Southern cowards and wimps that I doubt,” Gundar added, now glaring at Beric over his stew. “Prissy nobles prancing around in their fine summer robes, staring at snow like it's a fucking miracle that falls from the sky...” He turned to Sedric again. “And you're no different, you're just dressed in black. You've never seen winter or heard the old stories. If I could, I'd drive all of you out of my North.”  
  
“Then why don't you go alone and spend the night at the Nightfort?” Sedric barked back. “What do you need us frightened Southern boys for?”  
  
Gundar roared with laughter and slammed his fist on the table. “You hear that?” He looked to Leiff and the boy who had offered to join him. “The three of us are the only real men around here! All the Southerners are afraid, especially that dainty knight of summer you brought!”  
  
“And you know that how?” Beric sharply inquired.  
  
“You're not of the North,” Gundar grunted. “All the other boys of summer wet themselves if I even mention the Nightfort. Why would you be any different?”  
  
Beric withstood the daring glare and returned the humorless smile. “It seems to me you are the one who's afraid to go all by himself. If you're so desperate for company, why don't you take me along and we'll see who ends up wetting his pants?”


	11. In The Shadow Of Winter

“Why do you let him rag on you like that?”

Thoros shot a disgruntled glare to Gundar. The big-mouthed crow rode ahead and had been talking too loudly about Southern cowardice for Thoros' taste all the way.

The boasts were directed at Beric and the Blackhaven guards, but that didn't make them less irritating. The only time Gundar had changed the subject, it had been to give a brief reason why Thoros was spared from his wrath. Gundar knew his history well and that included tales about the Siege of Pyke, the great battle that ended the Greyjoy rebellion almost a decade ago. Thoros had been the first through the gate, everyone knew that and called him both brave and insane for the charge. The reward of knighthood had not been given to him though. That honor went to the _second_ man through the gate and it happened to be a Northerner, Ser Jorah Mormont, the Lord Commander's son. Not long after, Ser Jorah had dishonored himself by selling men into slavery, then he went into exile, far away from the shame of his past. The Lord Commander was understandably bitter about the disgrace to his legacy and would not let anyone forget that when the subject came up. His son had _not_ been the bravest at Pyke, he had sternly told Gundar. It had been a madman from Essos and that madman should be shown proper respect.

  
“He might have a point.” Beric glared at Gundar as well, but he seemed more bothered by him talking to Leiff than by what the crow said.

Thoros' gaze immediately jumped to Beric. “You agree with that braggart?” he asked, disbelief and slight anger in his voice. “Did you even listen to him?”

“I did.” Beric shrugged undecidedly. “And it's true, I don't know much about the North or other realms, for that matter. He's right, I did play it safe by never straying too far from home.”

“He didn't.” Thoros nodded to Gundar. “He killed three Iron Islanders at the Flint Cliffs. Stranded survivors of a storm he claimed were 'invaders'. Now look how far he got with that. He's tied to the Wall while you travel the realms.”

“It isn't a tale to be proud of,” Beric admitted. “But it's a tale to be told nonetheless.” He paused and looked over to meet Thoros' quizzical glance. “My conquest of the Stormlands, it was not an easy thing to do,“ Beric continued. “Yet when I spoke of it, many knights were not interested at all. They had been to those castles, competed in those tourneys, saw it all with their own eyes. I didn't have any exciting tales of far away places to offer. 'Ser Slumber', some knights mockingly called me because my tales made them yawn.” He sighed and looked over to Gundar and Leiff, still engaged in a conversation about Northern legends, then back to Thoros.

“I would have looked bad if I abandoned my goal,” he answered the question Thoros hadn't yet asked. “Everyone knew what I wanted to achieve. I had announced it loud enough when I still thought it would earn me respect.” Beric hesitated and cleared his throat. “It was disheartening that nobody cared about my travels. Having no tales people wanted to hear, I just kept more and more to myself. King Robert was the only one who ever seemed impressed by what I achieved. It meant a lot to me to not be boring for once.”

“Don't talk like that, my lord.” Thoros took a pull from his flask and then offered it to Beric. “You achieved something these knights didn't even try. You followed through with your plan despite their shallow adversary. That makes for a better tale than yet another tourney at yet another castle. And you did it for yourself, not to entertain a bunch of bigmouths. Who cares what they think? _My_ opinion should matter and I don't think you're boring.”

Beric drank from the ale and returned it to Thoros with an uncertain smile. “Or you're just easily entertained,” he said after a moment, disarming Thoros' reproachful glance with a smirk.

 

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The sun was setting behind the dense forest when they reached their destination. Queensgate and Deep Lake lay several hours behind them and they had only stopped briefly to water the horses. Now the oldest of the castles of the Night's Watch loomed ahead. Compared to the two abandoned castles they had seen on the way, the Nightfort looked forlorn and eerie, as if time had worked especially hard to erase it from memory. The crumbling buildings were shrouded in fog and partially reclaimed by nature, with trees growing in the yards and vines crawling through windows and cracks in the walls.

The horses had balked and would not go any closer than the foot of the hill the Nightfort stood on. They had shuddered and whinnied and refused to obey. Therefore, Gundar had suggested to leave them by a small lake in a nearby forest, the closest suitable place to make camp for the night. He had also insisted that the guards stay there. Beric had agreed, much to the guards' relief. None of them had been keen to enter the ruins and only two had protested, knowing their lord would not give Gundar the satisfaction of taking them along.

“Be wary of strange lights by the water,” Gundar had warned them. “The will-o'-the-wisps will lead you off the safe path. Don't follow them if you don't want to drown! They are mischievous, even more than those in the Neck.”

  
When the small party reached the gate of the Nightfort, the full moon lay half hidden behind thick clouds, barely casting enough light to see the overgrown path. From the distance the ruin had looked like bones of a giant animal's skeleton reaching up to the sky. Standing so close to the carcass of a castle, its veins were visible as well. The outer walls and slanted grey towers were entangled in vines through uncounted holes. Some of the structures behind the rust-covered bars of the gate had lost their battles against time altogether. Roofs had been taken by rain, wind and snow. Cobble paths were barely recognizable under rambling weeds and thick roots. From where the group stood, they could see one intact building and it even had doors, though they were crooked and covered with moss.

Gundar and Leiff carried backpacks with the bare necessities to make camp in the ruin; blankets and bread, and a few bottles of ale. Beric insisted on holding the torch that would light their way through the maze and Thoros had graciously agreed to carry the wine.

  
“Are you sure you want to do this?” Gundar turned around and glared directly at Beric, a daring spark in his eyes and a smirk on his lips. “You can still turn around and hide in your summery castle if you're too afraid of the dark.”

Thoros took a pull from his wine and shot a brief glance to Beric. He clung to the torch and tried to withdraw his face deeper into the furry black collar of the coat he had borrowed from the Night's Watch. Though he looked miserable, his voice was firm when he spoke.

“Maybe _you_ should pay my castle a visit,” he retorted. “If you did, you would no longer stand in the way to the gate. Or do you have any intention of opening it before sunset?”

Gundar leaned against the gate to push it open and growled something unintelligible, probably another remark about Southern pansies not knowing a thing about Northern dangers. The gate creaked and rust crackled from it when it gave in to Gundar's weight and allowed the group to enter the yard. Plumes of fog billowed through the tendrils of thorny vegetation, lingered undecidedly between distant buildings and seemed to swallow the brittle remains of a cart only a few steps away.

Unimpressed by the darkness and limited sight, Gundar did not hesitate and went through the gate. His posture looked like he dared the shadows to come at him when he stopped by the old wooden cart and tried to make out the surroundings. Leiff, Thoros and Beric followed him and the torch only helped very little to recognize details of the Nightfort's outer ward.

To their left was the building that seemed to have withstood weather and age best. It sat half hidden behind a big thorny bush; its vines reaching like arms of a kraken for the weather-worn roof. There was a knocked over anvil outside of it, the dull metal block rested against a large rock in a nest of grassy weeds. Cracked up spears were piled up under one of the windows and black water reflected the moonlight in a rust-covered trough near the stack. This had probably been the smithy and armory; it was almost poetic how this structure had held out best against time.

The building to their right could hardly be described as such anymore. The wall facing the ward was only scattered rubble and there was no trace of a roof. This had been the stable long ago, judging by shape and size. Now it was a forest surrounded by withered bricks. Knobby old trees grew rampant through the sad remains of the structure and the sprawling thicket beneath them had completely overtaken the ground.

  
“I admit, this place is the creepiest I've ever been to,” Leiff noted. He didn't sound frightened; this was merely a curious observation to him. “I spent a night in the old tower of Queenscrown once on a dare, but even that doesn't compare to this place.”

The flickering light of Beric's torch cast Gundar's gigantic shadow against the armory's wall. It looked like a demon trying to break free from shadow restraints when Gundar laughed. “You should be worried,” he said. “You're the same age the apprentice boys were when The Thing That Came In The Night took them.”

“You just stay close to me.” Beric turned to Leiff to wave him over. “If we stay together, we should all be safe.” It didn't sound quite as confident as Beric wanted and Gundar could hear his voice tremble. He snickered and quietly laughed to himself, but that went ignored. “You stay close, too,” Beric added, looking to Thoros. “I'm sure the crow can manage without a summer knight, even if that knight carries the torch.”

Leiff nodded and followed Thoros to Beric. Both watched every step on the way to not trip over vines. “Lucky me I'm not an apprentice,” Leiff said and chuckled. “I should be safe either way.” When he reached Beric, he regarded Gundar who still stood a small distance away. “But say, were you not the brewer's apprentice of Flint's Finger before you took the black?”

“I'm not anymore,” Gundar growled back and laughed. “Things that come in the night are afraid of me now.” A loud crack startled Beric when the crow kicked the cart and the rotten wood crashed under his boot.

  
“We should look around and find shelter.” Thoros looked up to the night sky and the clouds obscuring the moon. Some first drizzle drops fell on his face and the wind had picked up in the short time since the group had entered the yard. Maybe it only felt colder due to the breeze, maybe the temperature had really dropped. Either way, it wouldn't be wise to stay outside and get wet.

“Aye, we should,” Gundar agreed. “We wouldn't want the Southern boy's pants to get drenched this early on.” He turned around and grinned at Beric. “Or is it already too late?”

Beric shot him an angry glare and made a step toward him. He was about to retort, but he paused and pulled the fur-lined hood deeper when a gust of wind whipped the misty rain in his face. After a brief look around, he turned to the armory and walked toward its door. Thoros and Leiff followed him, as did Gundar after another kick to the broken remains of the cart.

 

“Let me try, you wimp!” He pushed Beric aside, interrupting the attempt to open the door. The doorhandle was covered with rust and cobwebs and it wouldn't move. Gundar grunted and let go of it, then stepped back to take a run-up. He slammed his shoulder against the door and the rotten wood burst with a loud crack. But instead of entering the armory, Gundar let out an annoyed sigh.

“What's in there?” Leiff asked, unable to see anything with the crow blocking his view. Instead of answering, Gundar stepped aside and let his companions take a look for themselves. When Beric held the torch closer to the opening, it didn't reveal the shelter from the drizzle and storm he had hoped for. Instead of an armorer's workshop there were beams blocking the way, enough to account for most of the truss. Even if there had been a path through the maze of moldy wood, it seemed even the slightest disturbance could collapse the roof.

A loud thump followed by cursing drew Beric's attention away from the disappointment of the armory and to the smithy. Gundar had tried to force its door open by throwing himself against it, but this time the approach had not worked out quite so well. Some of the wood had broken away only to reveal that from the inside the door was reinforced with metal bars. Being sheltered from the weather, they had not rusted and didn't give in to Gundar's attack.

“Maybe you should have knocked.” Leiff snickered and watched Gundar kick the door a few times for good measure.

“Would be dull to stay this close to gate,” Gundar barked and glared at Beric again. “Looks like you won't get a quick way to retreat to the camp.”

“Then why are you still standing there?” Beric held the torch up some higher to light the way when he walked back to the destroyed cart through the rain. “If you know so much about this place, why don't you suggest where we should look for shelter?”

“Not over there, that's for sure.” Thoros took a pull from his bottle when he reached Beric. He nodded to the jagged remains of a high wall that towered over a large field of rubble, overrun with weeds and low shrubs with dense foliage. Here and there, mossy old tables and broken benches protruded from the debris of what had once been the castle's Great Hall.

“That's where the Rat Cook roams,” Gundar declared with an air of importance and slowly wandered over to his companions. “Long ago, there was an Andal king who came with his son to visit the castle. He insulted the cook and the cook took revenge for the slight. He killed the king's son and served his flesh in a pie to his unknowing father. The Andal king loved it so much that he even asked for another slice.” He kicked the cartwheel and picked up a small rock from underneath it. “Southern moron that king was,” Gundar added and grinned. With the rock in his hand, he ambled along the path toward the ruin of the Great Hall. “That's a thing the gods cannot forgive,” he continued. “Slaying guests under your roof after they ate your bread and salt. So the gods punished the cook and turned him into a large rat, forever cursed to feast on his own offspring...” He stopped and threw his rock and for a moment, eerie silence fell over the ward. Then the rock landed with a muffled thud and squeaking and rustling carried over from the rubble pile.

“I don't believe that,” Leiff said, his voice firm and unimpressed by the tale. “If I was turned into a rat, I'd stay in the kitchen. It would be dumb to roam a Great Hall that no longer stands.”

Gundar laughed and slowly returned to the others. “The cook wasn't a smart man,” he gave back. “Why would he be a smart rat?”

“I'm still waiting for your smart advice.” Beric tried to shelter the torch by turning his back to the wind, with little success. Only when Thoros stepped closer to help, the flame no longer threatened to succumb to the weather.

“Over there, in the barracks.” Gundar nodded toward a long building across the ward. Thick knotty branches grew out through the windows and the gaping hole that had once held a door. “There should be an entrance to the vaults and the dungeons under the castle. Through those, we get to the middle ward without getting drenched.” He didn't wait for a reaction and walked toward the barracks, and Leiff followed him without hesitation.

 

Thoros threw a concerned glance to Beric. During their stay in Mole's Town, he hadn't been thrilled to spend the night underground. The tunnels that made up most of the settlement had been neither dark nor long abandoned and were even less said to be haunted. Though Thoros wasn't sure Beric cared much about myths and apparitions, the prospect of entering the vaults made him visibly uneasy. What Thoros knew for certain was that Beric wouldn't back out. That was exactly what Gundar was trying provoke him into doing and Beric would not let him have that victory.

“You know, I spent so many years in temples, praying and praising, and no god ever showed,” Thoros quietly said. “If all that worship didn't summon a thing, I doubt restless souls will bother us if we leave them alone.”

Beric regarded him for a moment in the flickering light of the torch. “I'm fine,” he then claimed, trying to sound as firm as he could. “And I'll be even better once we get out of the rain and the cold.”

Leiff and Gundar were trying to free the doorway from twigs and branches when Thoros and Beric arrived there. Their discussion seemed to be about the hellhounds Symeon Star-Eyes claimed he had seen when he visited the Nightfort thousands of years ago. This topic had probably been sparked by the debris halfway between the barracks and Great Hall; this heap had likely been the kennels. Neither Leiff nor Gundar seemed to have an especially strong opinion on the matter though. The discussion ended without an agreement when Thoros and Beric joined them. “After you.” Gundar smirked and stepped aside from the doorway.

﴾ _____________________________________________________________________________________ ﴿

  
Even Mole's Town's subterranean passages had looked like the royal floors of the Red Keep compared to the tunnels under the Nightfort. Not only were they dark and cold, they also barely deserved to be called 'tunnels'. Some stretches were manmade, but others were merely caverns with sad excuses of wooden floorboards and columns to mark the right path. Water dripped from the ceiling and down the rough walls and the foul smell of mold wafted through the abandoned halls. In some sections icicles grew and cutting currents of air found their way around corners, maybe from other exits or caved in tunnels that lay in the dark.

Gundar had compared their way through icy mud and around murky puddles to the tale of Arson Iceaxe, much to Beric's dismay. The legend said Iceaxe, a wildling, had tried to dig a tunnel under the Wall to reach the warmer and more fertile lands of the Gift. When the Night's Watch had discovered his efforts, they had seen no need to stop him. Instead they had filled the tunnel behind him with rubble and ice, trapping Arson in his self-dug prison. Whenever an old beam creaked or the wind howled from a tunnel, Gundar insisted the sound came from Arson Iceaxe, still digging away after all those years.

Beric had been quietly walking ahead with the torch. In fact he had barely said a word on the way and he didn't have to. Thoros knew ghostly moans were not what concerned him. Beric tried his hardest to distract himself from the thought of being befallen by Arson's fate. The middle ward of the Nightfort hadn't been visible and they had no way of knowing if the other side of the tunnel had caved in or was blocked from above.

By the time they reached the dungeons, Gundar changed the subject and brought up the seventy-nine sentinels of the Wall. Long ago, these deserters had abandoned the Night's Watch and took shelter on the lands owned by one's father nearby. But instead of hiding his son and his fellow outlaw crows, Lord Ryswell turned them in to the Watch. The Lord Commander had seventy-nine holes carved into the Wall and sealed the men inside them, each with horn and with spear. In death, they stood forever condemned to continue the watch they had abandoned in life.

This tale hadn't bothered Beric nearly as much as the one of the wildling and his icy tunnel. But it had taken a dangerous turn when Gundar declared they should climb the Wall. He wanted to see what the sentinels saw; the Haunted Forest beyond the realms of men. Scale the steps, carved directly into the Wall, thawed and frozen over a thousand times through the ages. It was an insane thing to try by daylight, even with rope, hooks and experience. At night, unprepared, nobody stood a chance of surviving the attempt.

“And once we're on top of the Wall...” Gundar had pondered with an almost dreamy tone in his voice. “...we'll light a fire on the fucking moon!”

Beric had replied with a dry statement about the Wall not being _that_ high, no true objection. Thoros knew if nobody protested, Beric would go along with Gundar's lunatic plan. So he and Leiff had spoken out against it, citing their lack of proper equipment as well as the hazards of the bad weather. When reason finally triumphed, Beric still didn't comment, but he had relief written all over his face. Gundar, on the other hand, seemed disappointed and passed the time by moving on to a different tale. He spoke of the Night's King, the thirteenth Lord Commander, who had taken a bride from the Lands of Always Winter, a white-skinned demon woman, her eyes bright blue like stars. With her, the Night's King had ruled the Nightfort for thirteen terror-filled years, until the alliance of the Winter King of the North and the King-beyond-the-Wall had ended his reign.

Gundar was describing dark rituals in which the Night's King sacrificed his brothers when the torch revealed old stone stairs ahead in the tunnel. There was snow falling in through the opening above them and Beric was not the only one who breathed out in relief. Nobody had been keen on returning to the barracks or getting lost in the darkness in search of another way out. Now, there was only one last obstacle to circumvent. The last few yards of the tunnel were flooded; the floor was invisible under inches of water that looked frozen toward the foot of the stairs. One by one, they balanced over a squeaking plank, perhaps the board of a bench from one of the dungeon's cells. And finally, the ice-cold fresh night air welcomed them above the steps and the rubble.

﴾ _____________________________________________________________________________________ ﴿

  
They emerged under a pentice by the middle ward's wall. Left and right stood two towers, the shattered remains of a third were barely visible behind bushes and trees. The wind had picked up and grown into a storm, whipping snowflakes and sleet through the bone-chilling cold. The tower to their right was in bad shape. It stood slanted and the bricks seemed to be held together only by thorny vines and poison ivy growing through the windows and holes. No doubt the slimmer tower to their left was the only choice to escape the wrath of the weather and they hurried to reach the open arch that had once held a door.

The wind whistled around the walls and snow was blown in, but at least the torch illuminated the tower's small room enough to not stumble. Roots and weeds grew through cracks in the floor and further back by the winding stairs stood a few barrels in the dim emptiness. Some of them leaked and strange mushrooms grew in and around the murky puddle and on the moldy wood.

“Maybe we should go back to the dungeons,” Leiff suggested after looking around. “There's not even dry wood here to make a fire and...”

Thoros saw Beric's eyes widen, but before either of them could say something, Gundar cut the boy off. “Horseshit, there's no wood in the vaults either.” He walked around in the small room to look at the barrels and then peeked out through the only window. “We'll give Lord Pansy a moment and then we make our way toward the bathhouse. I can see it out there, I believe.”

“The bathhouse?” Thoros shot him an incredulous glance. “Aren't we wet enough for your taste yet?”

Gundar turned around, but stayed by the narrow window. “I said toward the bathhouse, not into it. In that direction, we should find a way to the inner ward with the kitchen and the brewhouse. If there's dry wood around here, it's going to be in those buildings.” He reached for the flask on his belt and took a pull from the ale. “Either one of them is a better place to make camp than the towers.”

Now Beric nodded and woke up from his silence. “The towers don't look very safe. I agree, we should...” he began, but broke off when Gundar roared with laughter.

“I believe the crow fears Mad Axe will sneak up on us,” Leiff calmly explained and Gundar's gaze jumped to him.

“Mad Axe?” he echoed. “He's said to roam the Tower of Winter and the battlements leading to the Tower of Night. If he makes the way here, there won't be blood dripping from his beard and his axe anymore. He'll be as drenched as we are and that makes him rather easy to spot.”

Leiff shrugged. “If you say so,” he replied without any concern in his voice. “But then, you are the only crow around here. We have no reason to worry about a ghost out to slaughter his brothers.”

“You're wearing the black all the same,” Gundar retorted. “Ghosts don't look too closely.” He regarded Beric with a smirk. “Though it would be ironic if you were slain because a spirit mistook you for a man who has guts.”

“Aye, I don't have guts. That's why I turned back and ran before we even entered the gate.” Beric had finally run out of patience after silently bearing Gundar's snide remarks all day long. “Maybe the ghosts aren't the reason none of your black brothers would come along. Maybe it's knowing that you wouldn't shut up either way and haunt them with boasts of your courage all night.”

Anger briefly flashed on Gundar's face, but then the daring smirk returned. “I'm not the one shivering and shaking and clinging to the torch like his life depends on it,” he gave back. “If you're truly as brave as I am, why don't you prove it?” His gaze wandered from Beric to the steep stone stairs by the door. “You know what happened in this tower? You know whose ghost haunts it?”

“Probably yet another axe-wielding madman,” Thoros mumbled and Leiff, standing close enough to hear it, chuckled at that.

Gundar ignored Thoros and Leiff and walked away from the window back to Beric. “This is where Brave Danny Flint died,” he said, almost whispering in a foreboding voice. “She was a young girl with a true Northern heart. Wanted to do her duty on the Wall, so she disguised herself as a boy and took up the black. But she was discovered and the Southern boys of the Watch felt threatened. Young Danny made them look bad; she was braver than any of them and had better aim with the bow.” Gundar stopped directly in front of Beric, towering over him and glaring down with a humorless grin. “Cowards they were, they raped and killed her and Danny's brave soul never found rest. She still haunts this place, the Tower of Arrows, and defends it against any men who dare to come close.”

Beric swallowed, but he withstood the glare. “That is a sad tale,” he replied. “I hope her poor soul will find peace one day.”

Gundar answered with a dry laughter. “It is indeed,” he said. “Why don't you tell her in person and find out if that's what she wants to hear?” He nodded to the stairs. “She's up there, her bow at the ready and her eyes keen in the night.”

Slowly, Beric stepped back and turned to the stairs. They were wet and covered with moss, and there were only moldy posts left of the banister. The steps looked brittle and narrow and some edges had broken off. Thoros caught a glimpse of Beric's expression in the torch's flicker; he didn't want to do this, not at all. But he did. He carefully set a foot on the first step, looking up to the looming darkness of the floor above him.

“I knew you're a pansy,” Gundar commented. “Only a coward would cling to the torch while hunting for ghosts.” Beric stopped on the stairs and gave Leiff the torch, then turned back to continue his slow ascend. Gundar chuckled, Thoros and Leiff exchanged a brief worried glance. While it wasn't a good idea to go up there with only one free hand, going without any light also didn't seem wise.

“You know what they say about her?” Gundar nonchalantly asked when Beric was halfway up the winding stairs. Beric didn't react, but Gundar told him anyway. “They say she doesn't always kill those who dare to enter her tower. But the aim of her arrow makes sure no man can ever rape a woman again.” Now Beric stopped and looked down. It was hard to make out his shape in the dark where the light of the torch didn't reach him, but Thoros could see a brief flash of unease reflecting in his widened eyes.

“I never raped anyone and I never will,” Beric gave back, trying to sound confident, but he didn't fully succeed to hide the concern in his voice.

“You tell that to the ghost of a scorned woman.” Gundar smirked. “I'm sure she'll spare your Southern prick if you lay out your morals.”

“I never heard that part of the tale,” Leiff noted and tried to hold the torch higher, toward the stairs. Thoros shot a side glance to him, a silent thanks for the attempt to calm Beric's mind, though it probably didn't help all that much.

“I'm from Flint's Finger,” Gundar grunted. “I've heard it a thousand times and I'm sure that's how it goes.”

Beric hesitated, but he continued his way up the stairs, more crawling than standing upright by now. Leiff went closer to the foot of the stairs to cast more light on Beric's path, but the sharp wind coming in from the door tore on the torch's flame and made it a rather useless effort.

“What makes you think the spirit will have mercy on you?” Thoros turned to Gundar. “You said it yourself, ghosts don't look too closely who's disturbing them.”

“Ghosts know the true heart of a man,” Gundar declared with an air of importance. “She'll see mine beats for the North, just as hers did in life.” His eyes followed Beric on the last steps before the dark hole to the floor above them. He felt around for something to support himself, found the edge of the wooden floor and carefully stood up. “You're lucky there's a storm tonight,” Gundar commented when Beric set a foot on the creaking floor. “Makes it harder to smell the Southern stench. You might just make it through this as a man if...”

He broke off when Beric turned around, panic in his eyes, frantically trying to get back down the slippery stairs as fast as he could. “We need to get out of here, now!” he yelled, his voice cracking. Thoros didn't need to think; Beric wouldn't back down from Gundar's dare like that without reason. Something wasn't right and he'd explain later, that was good enough for now, so Thoros pushed Leiff away from the stairs and toward the door. In the dim light, he met Beric's eyes when he was halfway down the stairs and Thoros quickly nodded. Beric didn't hesitate for a second. He jumped the rest of the way and the moment Thoros caught him, Beric pushed him toward Leiff and the door. “Get out, now!” he repeated and turned around to Gundar. The crow stood there, shaking with laughter, but it didn't last long. Beric grabbed his arm and pulled him past the stairs and through the arch, out into the storm and the rain where Thoros and Leiff waited. Both exchanged a puzzled glance, but they helped Beric pull the laughing crow away from the tower. Moments later, a loud noise thundered behind them; the tower's ceiling came crashing down and buried the room they had left in broken wood, bricks and rubble.


	12. Northern Lights

“Admit it, you did wet your fancy Southern pants.”

Gundar didn't look up from his work and neither did Beric. Both were moving rocks and thick branches away to clear a path through a collapsed section of the middle ward's wall. Leiff lit the area with the torch and Thoros sipped from his wine while they waited and listened to the bickering of their companions.

“I'm not even wearing 'fancy Southern pants'. I wear the same itchy breeches as you.” Beric dropped a large piece of bricks and frozen mud in a shrubbery. “However, I _do_ look forward to the fancier clothes I'll wear once this is over. And to knowing you will sit in the cold and scratch your arse every day of your life.” Gundar snickered and as if he had summoned the winds of winter, a squall blew snow and icy rain under Beric's black hood.

“Like I care. Itchy pants are a small price to pay for the honor to serve the North.” Gundar reached under a wooden beam, easily fifteen feet long. “Northerners are made of sterner stuff than you, Lord Sunshine.” He was about to shove Beric away with his shoulder, but he realized he couldn't lift the stuck beam alone.

“Can we just agree to not go up any stairs we might find from now on?” Thoros stepped over the beam both men were trying to pull out under bricks and debris and kicked some of it away to help their effort. “If the storm keeps raging like this, it will tear at least half of the towers down. There are probably collapsed tunnels underneath and none of the tall buildings are truly safe on such shaky ground.”

Beric and Gundar stumbled backwards when Thoros removed the stone the beam was stuck on and the wood finally came free. “You get no argument from me there,” Gundar said and gave the beam one last kick. The path through the hole in the wall was now large enough for them and Leiff passed the torch back to Beric before they stepped through it to continue their way.

  
Behind the wall, they found the inner ward overgrown with thorny bushes, some nearly as tall as the few trees among them. There had been a path that completely disappeared under weeds after a few steps. It seemed to lead around the remains of the bathhouse, to a tall iron gate they could barely make out in the twilight of the forest. Beyond it were more trees; maybe the Godswood had been there long ago.

Attempts to cut away branches and thorny shrubs failed in the harsh weather; when one tree seemed to be tamed, the thick arms of another reached down. However, the short path to the bathhouse was less overgrown. Though the building appeared to be sinking into the frozen ground like a stranded ship, they agreed it was the better option to go through it and escape the raging storm for a while. Once inside, behind wooden doors that were half rotted away, they began to regret their decision after stepping into the large hall. The stone floor slumped down from the middle, leaving the far side of the room filled with black water and small ice floes floating in it. Only a narrow path right around the tall walls offered sound footing, just wide enough for one man at a time.

Even Gundar had gone quiet as they passed through the hall, carefully testing each tile if it would carry their weight. There was a hole in the roof, far enough to only let the snow and hail in on the opposite side of the bathhouse, but it allowed the moonlight to illuminate their dangerous way. Each step felt like defiling the grave of a friend. The storm raged loud enough to swallow the echoes, yet this place looked lost and gloomy; like a forlorn site of worship to praise the Drowned God.

Finally, they walked out of the bathhouse and breathed out in short-lived relief. The moon hid behind clouds, coy as a maiden and the harsh wind whirled the snow through the air in a wild dance. The snowfall seemed to grow heavier the further they went toward the shelter they hoped for, almost quenching the flame of the torch. Under their feet the ground was soft and muddy and made each step a struggle, except when they passed through the remains of a sept. Here they had to take care to not slip on large frozen puddles that lingered between shattered statues instead. The Stranger was the only one of the Seven still standing, its forbidding shape towered on a pedestal emerging from thick undergrowth. Underneath, the Warrior lay headless, next to the Smith and the Mother, both broken in half.

When they reached the two smaller buildings, they found the door to what looked like the kitchen blocked from inside. Through a hole near it, the thick branches of a bone-white weirwood reached inside like a burglar and the gnarly faceless trunk pressed against the wall next to it. Leiff had set down his backpack and squeezed himself through the opening, only to find the door was barred with a rusty oven, too heavy for him to push it aside. He reported the room was teeming with rats and let the snowstorm in through the roof, then he moved out of sight and with him the light of the torch.

They heard Leiff call out for them a few moments later and when the group turned around, they spotted him waving from a window of the other building. There was a passage connecting the kitchen to the brewhouse, half blocked with barrels, but just wide enough for a boy to find his way through. The brewhouse was in better condition, not full of rats and the door had opened after Leiff had encouraged the lock to give in with his dagger.

﴾ _____________________________________________________________________________________ ﴿

  
And finally, the worst trials of the night seemed to be over. The dry wood Gundar had predicted now burned in a fire pit in the middle of the small room. There were stone steps leading down to a cellar with empty barrels that had been sheltered from weather and time.

Leiff sat by the fire and roasted what Beric hoped were really rabbits, two loaves of bread lay on top of the backpack next to him. From the door came quiet grumbling; Gundar was trying to jam it with pieces of barrels to keep the raging storm out. Thoros sat on a blanket by the fire, drinking wine and watching Beric and it was not a pretty sight. Beric was pacing up and down near the pit and tried to warm his hands on the flames. He was still muffled up in the Night's Watch hooded waistcoat, his face almost hidden in the black fur from the cloak. Neither his attire nor the fire seemed to be enough as he was still shaking like a leaf in the wind outside.

Beric reproachfully glared at Thoros while trying to remove the black leather gloves from his hands. He didn't say anything, but Thoros knew what he was accused of: not being cold. Maybe it was claiming to carry the flames of faith in his heart for so long that he believed it himself by now. Maybe, very maybe, the Red God truly existed and tried to reach out to his wayward priest. Or maybe, and it seemed quite likely to him, it was just the wine. He reached up to offer the bottle to Beric, but it didn't change hands. Before Beric could take it, the storm overpowered the window's barricade and blew in a gust of cold air and snow.

Leiff barely paid attention to that and kept turning the rabbits over the flames. Gundar sighed loudly, annoyed by his effort on the window being destroyed, but he grabbed some pieces of wood and went over to start anew. Beric started at the window in disbelief for a long moment and then Thoros saw something snap in his eyes.

Beric shot a brief glance to Leiff and another to Gundar before he threw the second glove on the floor in frustration and walked around the fire to Thoros. He sat down on the blanket next to him, inched closer and put his arms around him, trying to sneak his hands under the layers of Thoros' black coat. Taken by surprise, Thoros tried to meet his eyes and when he did, he saw bitterness, resignation and relief at the same time. In his mind, he cursed the weather though he didn't freeze nearly as much as Beric. After all he had endured in the past hours, it just wasn't right that the storm wouldn't give up. Thoros put his arm over Beric's shoulders to pull him closer and tried all he could to help him warm up. Beric sighed quietly, lowered his head in defeat and buried his face in the fur of Thoros' cloak.

  
This time, the crow was more successful with his efforts to shield the small window. The barricade stayed in place when he let go. Gundar gave it a satisfied nod and turned around to go back to the fire pit. There he stopped, but he didn't sit down. Instead he quietly regarded Thoros and the shivering bundle of leather and fur in his arm. Without a word, he reached up to his collar, took off his cloak and draped it over them and confused, Beric looked up. “You need it more than I do, my lord,” Gundar calmly explained, then he made his way around the fire and sat down across from them.

Beric's gaze followed him through the flames, confused why there seemed to be no mockery in the crow's voice. Thoros was not so sure what had suddenly put Gundar in such an amicable mood either, but he chose not to question it and wrapped the cloak tighter around Beric's shoulders. As if his cloak's further fate didn't concern him, Gundar opened his backpack and began to take ale bottles out. Beric's gaze followed his hands, grazed the bottles and the backpack, then tried to meet Gundar's eyes under streaks of his unkempt dark hair.

“Something bothering you, my lord?” A smirk lingered on Gundar's lips when he looked up and through the fire after closing the backpack. Beric sighed quietly; the crow's sneer was yet to come. He lowered his gaze and slightly shook his head, barely visible under the hood and the fur lining the cloaks. Gundar chuckled and leaned forward, trying to meet Beric's eyes again. “Fuck that knightly humility,” he said and it sounded playful, not mocking. “At least take _some_ pride in your victory or I yielded for nothing.” Beric looked up again, puzzled and unsure what to say. “Aye, you won.” Gundar shrugged. “You're not a coward or a pansy. I take back what I said.” Still confused, Beric exchanged a brief glance with Thoros, hoping he could make sense of the crow's change of heart. When he felt Thoros shrug, he looked back to Gundar and still found no ridicule. “It takes true courage to not be afraid of looking weak,” Gundar finally explained. “In the North, we know to fear the cold above restless spirits. Only a fool would be too stubborn to see the true danger out there.” He nodded to the boarded up window and laughed to himself. “I'd have given you the cloak sooner, if you had just asked.”

Now a small smile played around Beric's lips and Thoros could feel him relax in his arm. “I didn't want to spoil the fun for you,” Beric said, not pretending to mean it. “And I admit, you are a good storyteller. I will remember the old tales you brought back to life tonight for a very long time.”

  
“You bring memories back as well.” Leiff looked over to Beric buried under two cloaks and huddled up closely to Thoros. He sounded thoughtful and sad though he smiled. “My father and his friend Alvred used to sit like this and tell stories when we went down to the Last River to fish.” He turned the rabbits over the fire, seemed to decide they needed some longer and instead picked up the bread from his backpack to tear the two loafs in half. “You are quite like them,” he then continued. “Or how father told me they used to be when he was young...” His voice trailed off and he thought for a moment while passing some bread to Gundar. “He was my grandfather's best hunter and taught my father to shoot the bow as a boy. People joked Alvred adopted him and taught him more than the maester. But it wasn't just that. Father said their friendship was worth more than all the Lannister gold.”

Thoros took the bread Leiff gave him and nudged Beric's nose with it. “Your father sounds like a wise man,” he replied. “Going by all you told us about him, he deserves such a friend.”

Beric peeked out of his hood and pulled his hand out of Thoros' pocket to take the bread. He shot a quick glance to Gundar before looking to Leiff. “Did we met him at Frostspear Hall?” he asked. “Was he one of the hunters who trained your brother?”

Leiff stood up to take the rabbits off the fire and his voice was husky when his answer came. “No, my lord. Three years ago, Lord Bolton caught him hunting in the 'wrong' woods and sentenced him to serve at the Wall.”

“Did you meet him there while we went to speak with the Lord Commander? Or was he sent to one of the other castles?” Beric sat up without moving an inch away from Thoros.

“He was sent to Castle Black, my lord,” Leiff gave back, still gloomy. “Alvred was an old man and life is harsh on the Wall. He died a few months after he took the black. Father was never the same since that day.” This time, he passed the food to Thoros first; Gundar had gotten up to hand Beric a bottle of ale.

“My apologies for bringing up painful memories,” Beric said. He wanted to add something, but Gundar cut him off while exchanging ale for rabbit across the fire.

“That wasn't right,” he grunted, anger echoing in his voice. “The punishment should fit the crime and that didn't. There's a reason nobody likes the Leech Lord.” He sat back down on his spot and took a bite from the rabbit, the continued, still chewing. “I've killed to defend the lands and people I love. Bolton doesn't care about either and preys on his own kind. He's not a whit better than the Rat King roaming this place.”

“You were right about him being in the Great Hall,” Leiff took the chance to change the subject. “The Old Gods turned him into a big white rat. I would have noticed one like that in the dark kitchen if he had been there.”

Gundar smirked and took a pull from his ale. “I know these tales better than anyone. The North lost a great minstrel when I was sent to the Wall.” He turned the rabbit in his hand, looking for the next bite. “Of course I'm right about where the Rat King lives and where Brave Danny Flint aims her bow.” Thoros chuckled when he felt Beric flinch a bit when the dare was brought up and judging by Gundar's amused expression he noticed as well. “But enough of that.” Gundar took his bite, followed by a large swig of ale. “I haven't told you about the time when the commanders of Snowgate and the Nightfort went to war. Then the Starks came to put an end to their quarrel and behead any man involved in it. Seven black brothers hid under the brewhouse we're in. The Starks searched all buildings and discussed their plans. The men in the cellar went insane when they overheard what fate waited for them. It is said you can still hear their screams echo, begging for mercy they would not receive.” He shot a glance to the stairs behind him. “Maybe we should go down there again and see what lurks in the shadows...”

“I've been down there to get wood,” Leiff interjected. “There's no haunting, just cobwebs and barrels.” He hesitated and shot a quick glance to Beric, then turned back to Gundar to continue in an ominous tone. “And shadows, as you say... I don't think we should let him go down there. The shadows are darker and denser there than anywhere we have been before.” Gundar shrugged and threw the rabbit bones into the fire. “Aye, I forgot,” Leiff continued before Gundar could say something. “Lord Beric has not told you that tale...”

Beric peeked out of his hood, confused what Leiff was talking about. He couldn't recall saying anything about shadows and wanted to ask, but Thoros got there first. “Maybe it's for the better,” he said with both mystery and concern in his voice. “Tales of ghosts can be entertaining, but when there's a reality to them, ignorance might truly be bliss.” The fire crackled louder and embers soared up in the air when Beric threw the bones of his rabbit into the pit. Again he wanted to inquire what in the world Thoros was talking about and again he was cut off when he only opened his mouth. “I know, I know. After all you have seen, you think we should warn him. But as long as you don't sneak down to the cellar, there should be no danger for him.” Thoros pulled Beric closer after disposing of his rabbit bones. “You're tired, my lord. We all are. We should get some rest now.”

“Nobody rests until you told me about this danger!” Gundar glared through the fire at Beric and Thoros. “What has he seen that requires a warning?”

“Strange things have happened,” Leiff replied instead. “I'm unsure what to make of them. Maybe it is all coincidence, but maybe...” He took a swig from his ale and gave Gundar a long knowing look. “...maybe there really is more to the story than I thought at first.”

Gundar's brow furrowed in anger. “Tell me that story. I'll judge for myself.”

Leiff exchanged a brief glance with Thoros and then thoughtfully regarded Beric. He was hidden in his pile of cloaks again and seemed to have given up on making sense of the conversation. His head rested on Thoros' shoulder again and his eyes were half closed. “Fine, I'll tell you.” Leiff turned back to Gundar and sighed. “Thousands of years ago, there was a king in the Stormlands. He was loved by his people and known as the strongest of warriors. This king ruled from his castle...” He paused and pretended to think hard for a moment, then looked at Thoros. “What was the place called?”

“The Storm King of Tempest Peak,” Thoros claimed confidently and tugged on Beric's coat to distract from the irritated look on his face.

Leiff nodded and continued to spin his tale. “He had a brother who envied him and wanted nothing more than to rule in his stead. For years he was plotting and scheming and one day he decided to take the king's life. When they went fishing together, the brother made his attempt while they were out on the...”

  
“Narrow Sea,” Thoros helped and Beric opened one eye. There was no Tempest Peak near the coast, Thoros would know that. There was the ruin nicknamed the Tempest Tower on the foothills of the Red Mountains, not half a day's ride outside Harvest Hall. It had been struck by lightning so many times the stones were charred as black as the basalt walls of Blackhaven, which had earned it this name. It had certainly never been a king's castle. It was an outlook House Selmy had grown tired of rebuilding and finally abandoned about fifty or sixty years ago.

Undeterred, Leiff went on. “But the Storm King fought off his spiteful brother and drowned him with his bare hands. It wasn't the end of their rivalry though.” Gundar impatiently tapped his ale bottle on the floor when Leiff paused to take a bite from his bread. “The brother's hate was so strong, he returned to the living,” Leiff picked up his yarn. “One night the king sat in his solar when the door opened and his brother shambled inside the room. His body was swollen and blistered from drifting in the ocean for weeks, kelp grew from his scalp and half of his face had been gnawed off by fish. But his hatred still burned and he attacked without warning. And the king drew his sword and killed his brother again.”

“This happened three more times,” Thoros added. “The brother kept coming back and the king kept killing him again and again.” He glanced down to Beric and noticed he was smirking, hidden from Gundar's sight by the fire and the black fur of the hood.

“And finally, the brother worked out a new plan,” Leiff said. “He killed the king's son and heir, a famed warrior in his own right. A cowardly deed; the prince was slain in his sleep. But it worked out for the brother. He could feel his strength grow, having consumed the spirit of this great warrior. Finally he defeated the king and took his throne, but only for one single day.” Gundar seemed captivated by the tale and almost forgot the bread in his hand. He only ate from it when Leiff paused to drink from the ale.

“What happened then?” Gundar asked, chewing his bread.

“The king was befallen by the same curse,” Leiff calmly explained. “He returned to life in the night, with the strength of a hundred brave men who had fallen to his sword in battle. He defeated his brother and cursed him to be forever bound by shadows and held in their realm.”

Gundar thought about it for a while. “That is a good tale,” he finally said. “But where's the danger you spoke of?”

Leiff stared over Gundar's shoulder, to the stairs leading down to the cellar. “The Storm King's brother is said to travel the realms in search for more strength to add to his own. He still strives to defeat the king, but he's cursed to stay hidden in the shadow stormlanders cast. When they step into shadows as dark as the brother's heart, he can break free from his curse for a short while. That's when he kills the strongest man he can find...”

“He stabs them in their sleep,” Thoros continued. “Just like he killed the prince thousands of years ago.”

For a moment, only the crackling of the fire could be heard. Gundar regarded Beric and he looked concerned all of a sudden. “Is that why you wanted to carry the torch?” he asked, still sounding undecided whether he should believe Leiff's tale or not. Beric quietly nodded and Thoros could see him smirk.

“The shadows are darker in the North, it appears.” Thoros shot a serious glance to Gundar. “There were seven guards when we left White Harbor. We found one of them dead by the fire when we made camp in a cave near Last Hearth. At first, we thought wildlings might have attacked in the night, but the scents of salt water and fish lingered in the air.”

Leiff nodded strongly. “In Mole's Town, a guard of the brothel invited us to stay at his place. He had warned us of thieves and violent drunks and assured us he knew how to handle encounters with them. The lad was used to trouble and knew how to fight. He was almost as tall and as strong as you. Yet in the morning, we found him dead in his bed and there was a puddle that smelled of the sea on the floor.”

Gundar's gaze slowly wandered from one of his companions to the next and finally rested on Leiff. “And you thought you should withhold this from me?” He sounded angry and there was slight tremble in his voice, barely audible, but unmistakably there.

“We didn't want you to worry,” Thoros gave back. “As long as Beric stays by the fire, the Storm King's brother should stay trapped in the dark.”

Gundar huffed and stretched out next to the fire pit, his head leaned on the backpack. “You better make sure he stays where he is then,” he grunted with a skeptical glance toward Beric. “Now we should rest. You all look fairly tired and we have a long ride ahead in the morning.”

 

﴾ ______________________________________________________________________________________ ﴿

 

The Northern sun cast two thin beams through the windows, not reaching the bed in which Beric still slept. Thoros stood next to it with a bottle of wine and some hesitation to pull back the furs and wake Beric up. After the trials of sleeping in tunnels and ruins he had earned a good night's rest in a soft bed. On the other hand, it was almost noon and sleeping in was not knightly; Beric would certainly agree about that.

“Time to wake up, Lord Sunshine.”

Carefully, Thoros' hand grabbed the edge of the largest fur and then all of a sudden pulled it away. Beric quietly groaned and turned away, trying to escape from the cold into the pile of smaller furs by the wall.

“Didn't we leave the crow and his stupid nicknames at Castle Black?” he mumbled into the pillow.

“Would good news make your morning less grievous, my lord?” Thoros threw the stolen fur onto the empty bed behind him and waited. Another groan later, Beric moved slightly and blinked up with one eye. “A raven from the Citadel arrived earlier,” Thoros said. “A new maester is on the way.” Now Beric looked less irritated. He smiled and sat up.

“That brightens my morning indeed,” he said and reached for his shirt to get dressed.

“And that's not all.” Thoros sat down on the other bed and took a pull from his wine. “Lord Warryng is strong enough to see guests today. Leiff let me know that his father wants to speak to you before we leave.”

“About what?” Beric pulled the shirt over his head and looked around for his pants when his face emerged.

Thoros grabbed the pants from the bed he sat on and threw them toward Beric. “Leiff didn't say,” he replied with a shrug. “Maybe Lord Warryng is just curious who's trying to seduce his son with the prospect of knighthood this time.”

 

﴾ _____________________________________________________________________________________ ﴿

 

The old woman who had called Beric into the room left when Lord Frydrick Warryng nodded to her. The man looked frail for his age, pale white skin on a gaunt body and his thinning dark hair was tinged with grey. He regarded his visitor with hazy dark eyes and waited for the door to fall shut before he spoke.

“I hear you want to take my boy away from me, Lord Beric,” he said after a brief silence. Though his voice was quiet and weak, his words sounded stern.

Beric hesitated and cleared his throat before he answered. “I meant no offense, Lord Warryng. I offered to make him my page, but your son has declined.”

Lord Warryng slowly moved his head, neither nodding nor shaking it, and kept looking at Beric with appraising eyes. “My wife showed you the keep and how we live here,” he said after a long pause. “You know we can't afford your Southern dawdling.”

“It was not my intention to fill my purse,” Beric quickly replied. “I would forgo any fees and I can provide anything a page would require.” He bit his tongue to stop himself from saying more. This was not the right thing to say to a man who could barely feed his family and Beric wished he could take it back. But apparently Lord Warryng did not mind. He seemed lost in thought, his gaze drifted to the window and he remained silent for a short while.

“What do you know of the Old Gods?” he asked and slowly turned his head back to Beric.

“They are worshipped in the North and parts of the Riverlands,” Beric said, unsure what Lord Warryng wanted to hear. “They watch the world through the eyes of the weirwoods. Your son showed me one on our way to the Wall.”

“Hm.” The lord nodded absently. “And your companion, the Red Priest. Do you share his belief?”

“I do not, Lord Warryng,” Beric gave back. “I follow the Faith of the Seven as most Southerners do.”

Once more, silence fell and Beric had a moment to wonder why he was being interrogated by Leiff's father. Maybe, he thought, he should clarify that he didn't try to whisk away his son in hope of payment. That he had no intention of converting him to a foreign faith. That he truly saw potential in Leiff and a mutual benefit in traveling together. But it seemed disrespectful to disturb the lord's thoughts and so Beric waited quietly if more answers would be demanded of him.

“The maester you called,” Lord Warryng began and waved away Beric's attempt to interrupt with his pale bony hand. “Oh, I know. Or I suspect.” The lord produced a brief knowing smile. “The scroll said he is well trained in medicine. He'll keep me alive for another few years.” He coughed and reached for a mug of ale on the nightstand and Beric hurried to help him, but didn't say anything. Lord Warryng drank, took a deep breath and handed the mug back to his guest. “My boy will take my place on his sixteenth name day,” he continued. “That's two years from now. I'll hold out that long. You have my blessing if you want to take him with you and show him the realms before his duty calls him back home. I told him so, but I can't make the choice for him. He's old enough to decide for himself.”

Surprised, Beric nodded and almost forgot to put the mug back on the nightstand. “Thank you, Lord Warryng,” he said. “I will talk to your son and hope he reconsiders.”

“You do that.” The lord seemed to chuckle to himself now. “And send Nan Anisa back in. I need to give her the good news of a new maester before I drift back to sleep.”

  
Beric closed the door behind the old woman and went down the stairs, lost in thought if the lord's approval could change Leiff's mind after all. He woke from the trance when he reached the large wooden gate and heard the chatter of his guards on the yard. They sounded eager to leave and get back on the road, but they would have to wait just a little while longer. Beric pushed the gate open, stepped outside and stopped in his tracks. Leiff was talking to Thoros, his backpack next to him on the ground. They saw Beric stand in the open gate and went silent, then both of them laughed.

“You knew!” Beric stared at Thoros, trying to appear angry, but neither his glare nor his voice succeeded in that.

“His idea.” Thoros smirked and shrugged, nodding to Leiff. “And don't you dare complain.”


	13. Masquerade

“I know, I know. You're a knight and I'm not, but do you really think this is how you should treat your page?”

Thoros stood by the table under the window, tried to decide on a wine and watched Beric admire himself in the mirror above the sideboard across the room.

“I see nothing wrong with it,” Beric replied and tugged on the collar of his new riding coat; black leather with subtle dark purple ornamentation and silver buckles gleaming in the early noon's light. “I told his father I would treat him well and that is exactly what I do.”

“That's one way to look at it.” Thoros sighed, took a bottle from the table and sat down on the edge of the bed. “Another is to say that you spoil him.” He tried to meet Beric's eyes in the reflection to no avail.

“Spoil him?” Beric chuckled. “What makes you say that?” He turned a bit to see the fit of the coat on his shoulder.

“Let's see,” Thoros began and took a deep breath. “You housed him and your guards in the best inn in the city. You bought him a horse and a sword and neither was cheap. And that's all on top of the money you gave him to spend as he sees fit...”

“So?” Beric finally turned around to face Thoros, as if he posed for a painter working on a royal portrait for the ancestral gallery. “He needs a horse and a sword. And why would I send him to a cheap inn that is much farther away from the Red Keep?”

“You are supposed to teach a page and reward him for good service. What will he learn if he gets everything right away?” Thoros asked, thoughtfully turning the bottle in his hands.

“He is already ahead of other pages. You've seen he knows what to do as it is.” Beric crossed his arms and his expression said he found this logic disarming.

Thoros undecidedly opened the wine, but didn't drink. “He did what Lord Manderly paid him to do. He knows how to brush horses and help knights into their armor, but those are not the only lessons a page needs to learn.”

“And since when are you so well versed in the customs of knighthood?” Beric raised an eyebrow and stepped closer to the bed, now mimicking the demeanor of a strict maester about to reprove an inattentive student.

“Since you talked about nothing else on the way from White Harbor to the Wall,” Thoros gave back. “When we reached Frostspear Hall, I felt like I lived through your youth as a squire myself. You said those years of service are meant to learn about virtues in preparation for knighthood. Patience, humility,...”

“...generosity,” Beric cut him off.

Thoros glared at him in disbelief. “...I was about to say 'valor' next.” He closed his bottle and left it on the bed when he got up. Standing eye to eye now, he put his hands on Beric's shoulders. “I don't mean to tell you what to do,” he said in a more amicable tone. “Just consider that it might all be a bit much for the boy. You didn't know everything when you were his age. Don't assume that he does. Too high expectations are a bad teacher and he'll just be afraid to ask if he doesn't know what to do.”

“He doesn't even want to become a knight,” Beric stubbornly retorted. “Why shouldn't he enjoy the good sides while we both pretend that he does? Who knows, maybe he will come around in the end.”

“Exactly,” Thoros gave back. “And he's a smart boy. Don't think he doesn't see right through your attempt at changing his mind. He won't come around if you only show him 'the good sides' because he knows as well as you do that they aren't the reality of knightly life.”

Beric lowered his head and stared as his boots for a moment. “You are right,” he said when he looked back up. “It's just...” He paused and hesitated. “The Reach knights never took me seriously when they came to the tourneys in the Stormlands. But this time, I have everything to show them that I can more than keep up with them. Exciting tales and victories in far away castles and a page that will serve as example for theirs. I just didn't want to leave anything to chance.”

Thoros nodded. “I understand, but don't worry about it so much. Those Reach knights will be impressed enough that you arrive with the king.” He let go of Beric's shoulder and went to the door. “And now we should hurry to not let His Grace wait.”

 

﴾ _____________________________________________________________________________________ ﴿

 

It didn't take the strong words of advice from Jon Arryn to make King Robert leave the comforts of the Red Keep. Not today, the one day of the year when His Grace couldn't wait to get on the road. In the Reach the Garden Festival awaited and it was one of the few events outside of the city that the king looked forward to.

In earlier years it had taken stern words from Jon Arryn to get His Grace interested in a harvest festival. Thoros recalled the king being angry and annoyed about entire Small Council meetings that served as reminders of the importance of his attendance. Speeches about House Tyrell of Highgarden keeping the food supplies of the realms running and the pivotal role they played for the crown due to that. Hours of His Grace telling his advisers that he was very aware of this, but simply didn't give a shit about dull formal events held two weeks away.

The king liked Mace Tyrell, Lord of Highgarden, Lord Paramount of the Reach and Warden of the South. His Grace even said he considered him a pleasant person and had nothing but praise for Lord Tyrell's youngest son Loras, who frequently attended tourneys in King's Landing. It surprised Jon Arryn again and again just how splendidly His Grace got along with the one man who took credit for bringing him defeat during the Rebellion, a decade ago.

Mace Tyrell would easily have shrugged it off if the king had declined his invitations to 'dull dances' to celebrate the biggest harvest of the Reach. It would never have crossed his mind to take it as a slight. Beyond the rather impressive list of titles and military achievements, Mace Tyrell simply had no mind for politics. That was hardly a secret. But he was not the one the crown had to appease. It would have been too easy, Jon Arryn used to say. The one who truly held the strings in Highgarden was the matriarch of House Tyrell, Lady Olenna, mother of Mace Tyrell. She had the political finesse her son lacked and the king's advisers knew very well that they were dealing with her, though her name never appeared on any correspondence.

Lady Olenna was also the one who had offered a solution to King Robert's disinterest in the Garden Festival, in the interest of cultivating the relations between Highgarden and the crown. She had a reputation for unconventional ideas and was never a strong opponent of breaking with tradition. When she had heard of the Hand's struggles to convince the king that demonstrating a strong alliance to the public was more important than his unwillingness to travel just to see 'a bunch of painted whores and jesters', she had swiftly added a small tourney to the list of events. That had been enough to make the festival appealing and lure His Grace to the Reach. And it had put Jon Arryn in Olenna's debt, the Hand said. He was probably right about that. Lady Olenna was not one to do favors without expecting something in return down the road. A 'sweet old lady' didn't earn the nickname 'Queen of Thorns' for nothing and among the soft spoken roses of House Tyrell, Lady Olenna was by far the spikiest one.

 

﴾ _____________________________________________________________________________________ ﴿

 

The Royal Party had been in high spirits ever since they left King's Landing on the Roseroad. With one exception: Thoros. A tourney, no matter how small, was enough to entertain His Grace, especially if it took place amidst the Reach's biggest feast. He'd have the company of Mace Tyrell and his war stories, the same every year, and he'd be more than happy with that. And if Thoros couldn't be bothered to listen to the same old stories again and again, he'd have the company of stuck up knights whose personalities were sadly far less colorful than their armor. There would not be an archery competition or a melee nor long nights in taverns; not in the 'Heart of Chivalry'. Things were almost obscenely proper there. The most rowdy entertainment Highgarden had to offer was probably a ring tossing competition for the pages.

Highgarden was less than a day's ride away and the mood had not diminished. Especially His Grace was in the best mood since his name day, as far as Thoros could tell. It certainly had to do with the fact that Queen Cersei stayed in King's Landing, claiming her oldest son wasn't feeling well. It wasn't true; Thoros had seen Prince Joffrey the morning before the departure and he had clearly been well enough to have fun riding a horse. But the king accepted the excuse, as he always did. A silent, mutually beneficial agreement of the royal couple to not have to endure each other's company.

 

The king was also, in his own words, 'fucking delighted' that Beric had returned with a Northern page. His Grace felt reminded of his youth, the halcyon days when he was fostered in the Vale of Arryn alongside a Northern boy. That boy had grown up to become the Warden of the North and the king still considered Lord Eddard Stark his true brother.

“...and one time, we fought from sunset to sundown!” His Grace declared as if it was a recent achievement. “Neither Ned nor I yielded. We would still be fighting it out today if the master-at-arms hadn't called it a draw because he was tired!” He raised his wine to a toast. “To the North! Damn fine swordsmen they have up there!”

“To the North!” the party stoically echoed and only few of the men drank. Even in high spirits, it was a ride of two weeks down the Roseroad and most of the men could hardly wait to arrive at their destination. There was some humor in their halfhearted answer to the king's toast, Thoros found. Here they were, surrounded by lush green meadows, fields of flowers and small crystal clear streams reflecting the blue summer sky. And two dozen men toasted the North with its harsh climate, as if nobody had any appreciation for the wealth of the Reach.

“You still haven't come to terms with the thought of drinking the best wine in the realms?” Renly smirked when he pulled his horse closer and noticed the unenthusiastic look on Thoros' face.

“I'd be happier with cheap wine and rich tales,” Thoros replied. “Last year I almost fell asleep on the table over the 'exciting' stories of Lord Tyrell and His Grace.”

“Maybe you just keep the wrong company.” Renly offered Thoros a new bottle of wine. “My brother takes any distraction, you know that. Even if it's just another memory of his days of glory, blandished so many times that he long forgot which parts are true. He'll be entertained enough with his captive audience and Lord Tyrell. Let them wallow in their reminiscences. Nothing chains you to their side, not here.”

Thoros took the wine and opened it for a long swig. “Easy for you to say,” he said and shot Renly a knowing glance. “You visit friends and you have an appreciation for the finer entertainment they provide. For me, it's the choice between two rusty warriors reveling in the past and the bragging of knights more concerned with painting their shields than a real fight.”

Renly raised an eyebrow. “Loras... Ser Loras has an impressive list of recent victories,” he gave back, almost sounding reproachful. “And he certainly had real competition to hone his skill.” He paused and regarded Thoros for a moment. “Why don't you compete in the joust to pass the time? You don't need to listen to anyone's bragging and you can deliver the real fight yourself.”

Thoros laughed and shook his head. “I thought about it,” he said. “But I doubt Beric would be happy to see me steal his show. He has some unfinished business with a Ser Lilias and a Ser... Elyor, I believe.”

Renly was about to reply, but he broke off when the horses ahead of them suddenly stopped. “Gods, what is it now?” He shook the reins and leaned to the side to see what the reason for the holdup was.

“His Grace wishes to visit the establishment,” a guard calmly informed him. Confused, both Thoros and Renly looked around. There was a single building next to the road, a small tavern or inn, utterly unremarkable.

“And why?” Renly turned to the guard. “We are at most three hours away from Highgarden. There's a harvest feast waiting for us. Why in the world would...” The guard shrugged and sighed and a bit down the road Thoros saw His Grace dismount his horse. He exchanged a quick glance with Renly, then both rode up to the king to inquire about the delay.

 

 “Ah, there you are!” His Grace was rarely so cheerful when his brother approached. “I've had a lass here a year or two ago, you wouldn't believe those teats!” Renly blankly stared down at him.

“We make the Tyrells wait for a tavern wench?!”

“Two,” His Grace corrected him. “One for you, one for me. You are my brother, Renly, but my brotherly love only goes so far. I'm not going to share those treasures, though she sure has enough for two men!” He laughed loudly and his gesture left no doubt which two treasures he meant.

Thoros sighed. This would be the end of the relative ease of the journey. His Grace just had to argue with Renly on the final stretch of their way. Sometimes Thoros wondered if there was a very specific illness of the mind the king suffered from; a compulsion to start fights with his kin, be it by marriage or blood. As far as the public and the king was concerned, Renly courted Lady Margaery, Mace Tyrell's only daughter. This arrangement found the approval of Lady Olenna; a strong display of friendship between the two powerful houses. It probably wouldn't even bother her all that much to know that Renly was more looking forward to seeing Ser Loras than his sister, as long as the public image remained untarnished. For that reason alone, His Grace knew damn well that Renly would decline his 'generous invitation'.

Thoros shot a quick glance to Beric, still on his horse next to the king's. There was slight panic on his face. He probably expected to be invited as well after having chatted with the king for the past few hours and it was a valid concern. His Grace found perverse joy in making Beric out to be the 'good example' Renly should follow. A few days ago, he had insisted that they should demonstrate their swordsmanship against each other. Ser Barristan Selmy had finally managed to convince His Grace that it needed no demonstration to know Beric was the better swordsman. That it would only cause a delay of the tourney to arrive with an injured member of the royal family. But there was no risk of injury in this case and when Thoros looked around, the faces he saw let him know he wasn't the only one trying to think of a way to calm down the situation before it would escalate.

“I appreciate the invitation,” Renly sharply replied. “But I must decline. And I...”

The glare of his brother made Renly go quiet, but before the thunder rolled, Beric turned to the king. His voice was trembling, but apparently he had decided that an attack would be his best defense, just in case.

“Your Grace, if I may ask a small favor?”

The king's emerging anger at his brother made way for surprise toward Beric. “You may,” he replied and it sounded more like a question rather than permission to speak.

Beric cleared his throat and respectfully lowered his gaze, though His Grace only regarded him with curiosity. “I would ask you to leave your master of law with me instead. I have a few questions regarding my page, his promotion and the unusual situation of him following the Old Gods. Of course, I would not want to discuss dull legal matters during a festival and...”

“Fine, fine!” His Grace nodded before Beric finished his request. Thoros was fairly certain that the mention of 'legal matters' had the power to instantly bore the king so much, he'd agree to anything just to end the conversation. “You better be done with that talk when I get back!” His Grace shot a stern glance to Renly and made a step toward the door of the tavern. Renly didn't react. He glared at Beric in unveiled awe and only stopped when he heard Leiff speak up.

“If you don't mind, I would like to go inside, my lord.”

Beric had just breathed out in relief. Now he stared at his page in utter shock and disbelief and visibly struggled to retain his composure.

“To try the stew,” Leiff explained with an innocent smirk. He knew exactly that Beric's mind had jumped to more nefarious conclusions and it seemed to amuse him. “I will not abandon my quest to obtain the recipe after only a month.”

The weight that was taken off Beric's mind almost audibly dropped to the ground as he nodded. “Of course, the stew...” he stuttered, still shaken. “If His Grace does not mind...” He carefully turned his head to peek at the king, probably hoping he'd tell Leiff to not bother him.

But His Grace looked amused, waved Leiff over and laughed when he saw the concerned look on Beric's face. “Cheer up, I'm not going to seduce him to sin!” Still laughing, he nodded to his kingsguard. “Barristan will keep him company. He's had some good stews over the years. I'm sure they'll find common ground while they wait for me.”

Thoros put the wine bottle back into Renly's hand and jumped off his horse. “I'll join them as well,” he said to Beric and Renly, who now stared at the bottle as if he saw it for the very first time. “There should be a drink more to my liking. And if Leiff finds the famed stew, I want to be there and try it.”

Beric's gaze followed him as he caught up with the trio outside the tavern, still astonished that his desperate plan had worked out.

“I'm afraid I don't know the first thing about knighthood and the Old Gods.” Beric turned back to Renly when he heard that. “But I can ask Grandmaester Pycelle for some books on the matter,” Renly continued. “Or consult with Lord Manderly. He probably deals more with such cases than anyone else.”

“Don't trouble yourself,” Beric gave back. “Leiff doesn't want to become a knight. I'll promote him as soon as customs allow it, so he can compete in squire tourneys. He's not after titles or fame, he just wants the money. We have an agreement to end his service in two years, knighthood or not.”

Renly stared at him for a long moment and slowly drank from his wine. Then the meaning of Beric's word had sunk in and Renly quietly laughed. “Promise to not tell my brother,” he said. “How about a wager instead? A bottle of Arbor Gold if he refrains from knighting your page while they're in there.”

 

﴾ _____________________________________________________________________________________ ﴿

 

“I assume you're going to stay with King Robert?”

Beric's tone was much too unconcerned to not be suspicious. Thoros handed Leiff the reins of his horse and turned around to see his suspicions confirmed. Beric tried much too hard to make it seem like idle chatter for it to be an innocent question. He looked tense and kept shooting furtive glances across the festival grounds to where several knights of the Reach had already gathered.

“Probably not,” Thoros replied, playing along with the facade of a casual conversation and immediately, Beric's brow furrowed. “His Grace and Lord Tyrell claim that they fought each other in that battle they love to reminisce about,” Thoros continued nonetheless. “I've heard it from both sides a thousand times over the years. Frankly, the tale doesn't get better, no matter how they embellish it this time around.”

Beric nodded, pretending to be understanding, but it was easy to see that he didn't like the answer. “Then what are you going to do?” he asked. “You're probably not too interested in the tourney if there's only a joust.”

Thoros raised his eyebrows. “You assume a lot about how I plan to spend my time today,” he said and stepped closer. Beric followed suit and took a step back.

“I'm just wondering,” he quickly gave back. “I recall you being bored out of your mind at Storm's End and the entertainment here won't be too different from that.” Now it sounded much too defensive to be 'just wondering', Thoros thought.

By now, the squires had led the party's horses to the stables and Lord Tyrell was about to come to an end of his drawn out greeting of the king. Soon the royal party would disband and the closer that moment came the more nervous Beric seemed. Again he glanced over to the Reach knights that had gathered in the shade of a large open tent.

“Is there something you want me to do?” Thoros inquired. Beric answered with silence and an undecided nod. “Well, maybe you should ask me then,” Thoros suggested. Beric's glance grazed the grass on the ground for a short while.

“Would you mind if we kept a bit of a distance while we're at Highgarden?” he asked when he looked up to Thoros. “In the past the Reach knights have derided me for every little thing they deemed 'unknightly'. I don't want to give them any reason to do that again.” He paused and hesitated, but continued when Thoros didn't react. “They would look down on me for keeping the company of a Red Priest. In King's Landing and the North people don't look too closely, but this is the Reach and it would not be proper to...” He broke off when he noticed Thoros' expression, disbelief with a touch of offense.

“Seems proper enough for the king to be seen with me,” Thoros slowly replied after a brief silence.

“That's different,” Beric quickly said and took another step back. “The king is beyond reproach. Many things His Grace does would be seen as unknightly if done by any other man. Dishonoring the queen, for example, or treating his brothers with such disdain.”

Thoros answered with a condescending nod. “If my company is now something to speak of in the same breath as those offenses, fine, I'll leave you alone. I'm sure I'll find someone who doesn't compare my presence to whoremongering and speaking ill of his kin.” He didn't wait if Beric had to say anything else and just stormed off to the merchants' tents to calm his temper with wine.

 

﴾ _____________________________________________________________________________________ ﴿

 

It felt freeing to Thoros when he stepped through the gates of Highgarden and left the Garden Festival with its illustrious visitors behind. Out here on the Roseroad he found a perfect summer idyll that stretched in all directions; green meadows and seas of flowers swaying like waves in the warm wind. In the near distance, where the Roseroad met the Ocean Road, he could see harvested fields lined by old trees that grew apples and cherries and the Reach's famed peaches. There was no music; the festival's minstrels were too far away. But it was neither quiet nor lonesome out here. Just under the bridge that crossed the Mander River, a large crowd had gathered. And there were several wagons standing on the road along the short wall that connected to the outer gate of Highgarden.

The people gathered there sounded quite cheerful, though they appeared to be rather poor. Nobody down there wore fancy dresses or pompous armor, no guards carried banners and there was just a handful of horses at most. Whatever was going on here, it was more appealing than going back to the yard.

Thoros had endured several tales of His Grace and Mace Tyrell while sitting through the first few bouts of the tourney, with very little interest in either. When the king had proclaimed that yet another thing reminded him of the Battle of Ashford, Thoros had had enough.

“Have I ever told you about how I almost lost my hammer in the heat of the battle?” His Grace had asked, eager to tell the story a third time since they had arrived.

“Of course, Your Grace,” Thoros had confidently replied. “How could I ever forget such a glorious tale? Your hammer was almost buried under a dead horse, but you found it just in time to bash in the heads of two Tarly soldiers with a single strike.”

The king had quietly grunted, but Lord Tyrell interfered just in time. “Two with a single strike!” he called out, as if it was the first time he heard it, then furrowed his brow. “Say, didn't you repeat this feat at the Trident, Your Grace?” Thoros took his chance to get away at that point, knowing His Grace claimed to have killed three men at once during this battle. He'd be distracted with the boasts about that for a while and not care too much who listened to them.

Thoros had wandered around for a while, chatted a bit here and there with old friends and sampled the wares of the merchants. The last thing he had overheard was Beric talking to three knights in painted armor, telling them that he arrived with the king's party. He had probably tried to make claims that he was a close friend of Ser Barristan Selmy or Ser Arys Oakheart in an attempt to impress and Thoros had left in annoyance.

 

﴾ _____________________________________________________________________________________ ﴿

 

The gathering across the bridge held more promise to offer distraction. Maybe a congregation, Thoros thought when we walked closer and could make out several women that appeared to be septas. Only when he reached the wagons, loaded with sacks of grain and baskets of fruits, Thoros' eyes found the one exception among the humble clothes of the crowd. A light-green gown embroidered with pearls and golden roses stood out. Its train dragged through the dirt with every step of the wearer, but the young woman did not seem to mind. What did bother her were the unsteady stacks on her wagons that threatened to fall more than once when she took a basket or tried to pull down a sack. There were two guards who had been hidden from sight by the wagons before. They did what they could to provide their lady assistance, but had simply not enough hands to keep the way free for her and steady the load of the wagons at the same time.

Thoros hurried when he saw a stack of grain sacks wobble dangerously and managed to push it back on the wagon just in time to not fall. The young woman paused and smiled brightly, two baskets with apples hanging on each of her arms.

“Oh, finally!” she said cheerfully. “I was beginning to think Loras forgot about me!”

Thoros greeted her with a slight bow and a quizzical expression. “Lady Margaery,” he began and didn't get further. A sliding grain sack cut the time for pleasantries short. Thoros caught it and shoved it back on the wagon. “I haven't seen your brother all day,” he admitted after he had made sure that the sack would stay where it was. “Does he not fight in the tourney?”

Margaery Tyrell handed the baskets to waiting hands from the crowd, then turned back to Thoros. “He injured his shoulder in training last week,” she said and sighed. “He's been sulking since he learned he could not compete. I asked him to help me out here. Never hurts a knight to dedicate some time to charity, does it?” She smiled and took some new baskets from the wagon. “I thought we could manage, but as you can see, it did not work out the way it was planned. I sent Loras to find someone with two strong shoulders to help me and he still hasn't returned.”

Thoros regarded the wagons and the grain sacks on them. “It would be my pleasure to help,” he said with a shrug. “I'm already here, with no other plans, and I brought both my shoulders.”

Lady Margaery gave the baskets away and whirled around to Thoros again. “How delightful!” She smiled and stepped on the wheel to reach the baskets further back on the wagon. “It is so rare that missionaries of other faiths visit the Reach! I always enjoy spending time with them and find things we have in common. And I have yet to hear of a god who doesn't approve of charity.”

“I once heard of a cult in Gogossos on the Isle of Tears,” Thoros said and climbed on the wagon. “They were said to disapprove of all customs of every other faith, out of principle. But I don't think they're still around. It's an old legend they told in the temple.” He picked up two grain sacks. “Where do you want these, my lady?”

Lady Margaery turned to the crowd. “Those of you with carts or horses, please come forward!” She waited for the people to make way and then waved Thoros over. “Oh, look at that...” She laughed and nodded to the bridge. “Now my brother shows up to bring me some help.”

Thoros threw a glance over his shoulder while setting the grain sacks down on a cart. “You'll be pleased to hear our meeting of faiths gets another addition,” he gave back and smirked.

 

﴾ _____________________________________________________________________________________ ﴿

 

The wagons were empty, the crowd had disbanded and Lady Margaery made no real effort to brush the dirt off her gown. “We've done much good here today,” she said, looking up to the wagon where her helpers sat in the shade of a tree. “Now we have earned some refreshments! And I bet people are waiting for us. Let's go to the festival grounds for some entertainment!” Her enthusiasm was not returned and the only answer she got was three voices grumbling in a perfect harmony of discontent.

“Oh, please!” Margaery tried again. “It's the Garden Festival! We are all here to celebrate, not to sulk!”

“You think I want to celebrate that someone else claims my victory?” Loras' brow furrowed as he tried to move his arm in the sling.

“You have nothing to prove here,” Margaery replied with a smile. “Everyone knows of your ability. You can relax and enjoy the festivities for once!”

Loras huffed and shot her an unamused smile. “Enjoy what? Sitting with father and pretending I never heard the tales he tells every year?”

Thoros nodded in agreement, but Lady Margaery still didn't give up. “I thought you were looking forward to see Renly,” she began and her brother just dryly laughed.

“I did,” he gave back. “But if His Grace was drunk enough to not mind his absence, he'd already be here.”

Margaery sighed in defeat and her eyes wandered to Thoros and Leiff. “What about you? What's your excuse to be gloomy on such a nice day?”

Leiff glanced over to Thoros and when he got a brief nod, he turned to Margaery. “I was ordered to 'learn from the other pages' when my knight went back to brood in his tent, my lady,” he replied, politeness barely covering up his frustration. “Had your brother not borrowed me to assist you out here, I'd still be a nanny for boys half my age.”

Margaery's glance drifted to Thoros and she got her answer before asking the question. “Same as them,” Thoros said with a slight shrug. “Dismissed by the same knight, tired of the same stories."

“I yield.” Margaery playfully pouted and stepped back on the road. “I'll go look for grandmother then. Maybe she has some complaints about the arrangements on the terrace. Or I'll join our cousins and ask what they dislike most about the stage play! There are so many exciting reasons to be miserable!” She nodded to her guards and turned to leave. “It never gets old to be the only one who actually enjoys the event...” she added resignedly. “But I'll see what I can do to aid Renly's escape.”

 

﴾ _____________________________________________________________________________________ ﴿

 

The summer breeze rustled the crowns of the trees, birds sang and the Mander rushed under the bridge behind them. The trio on the wagon still sat in silence for a good while after Lady Margaery had left with her guards.

“My shoulder hurts,” Loras then broke it, matter-of-factly.

“My wine is empty,” Thoros added, turned his empty bottle upside down and not a single drop fell.

“I find it too warm in the South,” Leiff said calmly.

Then it was briefly quiet again before the three of them laughed.

“So you don't like being a page?” Loras' gaze grazed Thoros' bottle and then wandered to Leiff. ”Is it not what you imagined?”

Leiff undecidedly shrugged. “I shouldn't complain, I guess,” he said reluctantly. “I'm used to the work and Lord Beric is very generous. But I thought we had an agreement...” He broke off and shot a quick glance to Thoros.

“So did I,” Thoros gave back. “Looks like we were both wrong about that...”

“About what?” Loras inquired and flicked a grain off his boot.

“About me working for payment, not fame or titles,” Leiff answered. “All I want is to earn enough to get my family through the next winter. Now I'm ordered to 'learn about chivalry' from a bunch of boys who live in a fairytale and Lord Beric told people he thinks I'll be ready for knighthood within the next year.” He looked up from the floor and the straws he had played around with. “I don't want to be a knight and he knows that.”

“Sometimes I don't want to be a knight either,” Loras absently replied while his eyes searched the wagon for a new corn to flick. “Fame and titles don't always make up for the times when you have to pretend to be something you're not.”

 

“And what would that be? A gallant host?”

Loras' head spun around when he heard Renly's voice from behind and the frown on his face made way for a smile.

“Because if that's what you're pretending to be today, you're not very good at it,” Renly continued with a smirk. “Sending your sister to my rescue is not very knightly.”

“Maybe you should stop pretending to be the distressed damsel.” Thoros grinned and sat up straight.

“Says the warlock who consorts with my villain of a brother.” Renly shot him a playful glare and climbed onto the wagon. “What are you two doing out here to begin with?” he added when he sat down next to Loras. “It's not very knightly to leave Beric alone in his misery either.”

“We should make a wager,” Loras said with a smirk. “I bet my horse that there are less than ten people who aren't miserable at this dreadful festival.”

“Except nobody's going to bet against that,” Thoros gave back.

“Aren't you going to ask me what happened?” Renly regarded him quizzically, apparently waiting for something.

“Leiff already told me.” Thoros put his empty bottle in front of his crossed legs and gave it a small push to spin it. “He tried to impress Ser Lilias with his victory from White Harbor and bragged about facing the ghosts of the Nightfort.” He looked up to Renly from the slow spinning bottle and anger echoed in his voice when he continued. “He told everyone who would listen that he arrived with the king, claimed he'd knight Leiff in a year and the Lord knows what else.”

Renly nodded along with each point. “I see,” he said when Thoros was done. “And none of it went over well. Ser Lilias told him that Northern knights are pansies and their tourneys don't matter. Ser Elyor laughed at him and said ghosts only exist in tales to scare children. That it takes no courage to spend a night at the Nightfort and only a fool would waste his time with it.” He gave Thoros' bottle a new push and looked to Leiff. “And I don't think you heard that Ser Lilias started the debate about you by saying Northerners don't have the grace or the skill to be knighted. Beric didn't mean to disrespect your wishes. He tried to defend you and even if Ser Lilias wouldn't listen to it, you should give your knight credit for that.”

Leiff sullenly glanced up to Renly. “And he asked you for advice about knighting me,” he gave back. “He may not admit it, but I don't live up to his idea of a perfect page, after all.”

Renly shook his head and watched the bottle spin out. “He asked about customs to promote you to squire,” he calmly corrected. “Not because Beric thinks you want to be a knight, but so you'd be allowed to compete in squire tourneys and could earn your own money.”

Now Leiff and Thoros exchanged a dumbfounded glance before both looked back to Renly.

“You'd be competing with boys your age,” Loras noted. “And if you're good you can fill your purse enough to not worry about any winters to come.” He paused and furrowed his brow. “Why wouldn't Lord Beric know about promotion customs?” he then turned to Renly.

“It's because I don't worship the Seven,” Leiff answered instead.

“Oh, of course!” Loras laughed and thought for a moment. “He should ask my grandmother about that, not Renly.”

“Your _grandmother_ knows about squires and the Old Gods of the North?” Thoros shot Loras an incredulous glance.

“She's known to keep strange bedfellows,” Loras explained. “She has an old friend, Ser Eldrion Thorncliffe of Ironrose Island.” He noticed Thoros' puzzled expression didn't fade. “Small rock near the shores of the Arbor,” he added. “House Redwyne never had use for it, so they gave it to their master-at-arms. I think he put a fishing hut on it. There wasn't room for much else.”

“And he had a page who followed the Old Gods?” Thoros concluded.

Loras shook his head. “Not that I know of,” he said. “But Ser Eldrion left everything but his faith back on the Saltcliffe Islands when he left to find a better life in the Reach. Funny how he found it on a different rock and had no interest in meadows and fields... But I imagine if anyone has the answers you need, it's a knight who worships the Drowned God.”

“Aye, that seems likely,” Thoros replied, still surprised. “And he is attending the festival?”

Loras got up and jumped off the wagon. “He arrived yesterday with Lord Redwyne's party,” he gave back and blinked up to the sky. The blue had begun to blur with orange and purple on the distant horizon over the Ocean Road. “We can probably find him on my grandmother's terrace at this hour.”

Leiff and Thoros followed him, but Renly remained on the wagon. “You go ahead,” he said, looking to Loras. “I'd like a word with Thoros alone.”

Thoros regarded him skeptically, but he waited when Loras and Leiff walked toward the bridge. “It's 'not very knightly' to leave his page to play nanny and run away from Ser Lilias' scorn. However, I can believe it was a misunderstanding,” he cut Renly's attempt to say something off. “But there was nothing to misunderstand when he told me to not shame him with my company. He made his bed, now he can lie in it.”


	14. Behind The Roses

Outside the tent the sun set over the Reach, the last evening beams shrouding trees and fields in a warm golden glow. Most of the surrounding tents were not occupied. Their owners were on the festival grounds, enjoying the opulent feast, the cheerful music and the exquisite selection of wine.

The tourney had started just fine, but shortly after the first tilt it went downhill fast. Some of the Reach knights had noticed his arrival in the king's party and seen Beric's brief chat with Ser Arys Oakheart. The company of a Kingsguard from the Reach had been enough to make the young knights curious. After Ser Arys had taken his place by the king's side, they approached Beric to ask about his recent travels and victories. It had been a long time since he had found an audience and Beric gladly told them about his time in the North.

Then Ser Lilias joined the small group, along with his cousin Ser Elyor, and Beric was brought back down to earth with a bump. Northern knights were a joke, Ser Lilias loudly declared. It didn't take a lot to win in White Harbor, according to him. Ser Elyor added that he did not understand why a knight of repute would even bother to make the long journey. Both agreed that it was an even bigger waste of time to visit the Wall. “That's where honor goes to die,” Ser Lilias told the group. “There's nothing but bastards and thieves that deep in the North.” The other knights were easily swayed by the duo's strong words, even more so when they began to laugh about the tale of the Nightfort. Stories for children that only fools would believe; it was not brave to spend a night in the ruin, it was simply stupid, the cousins explained. And when Beric had lost the tilt against Ser Arys, if only by a narrow margin, their ridicule knew no bounds.

  
This was worse than being ignored in the past, when nobody had even bothered to ask about Beric's achievements. If he was honest with himself, Beric had to admit that he had seen defeat on the lists as the fastest way out. Leiff didn't need to hear Ser Lilias' insults, so Beric had told him to stay with a group of other pages. They were talking about more pleasant things than their hate for the North and it gave him a reason to stay away from the lists and Ser Lilias. When Beric returned to the festival grounds and walked around between merchant stands and small stages, he suddenly felt very alone in the crowd. Anguy wasn't here, Thoros had been told to stay away and the members of King Robert's party were busy with their own affairs. Ser Arys and Ser Barristan were surrounded by Reach knights whenever they left their spots by the royal chair. The king and his brother were engaged in discussion with the host and honored guests at their table. And with nobody to talk to, Beric returned alone to his tent.

The afternoon tasted like bitter defeat and for a while Beric considered trying to wash it away with some bottles of wine. But then he thought back to his first tourney in King's Landing. Getting drunk enough to forget the humiliation was only a surefire way to make everything worse. This time, no friendly warlock would drag him out of the flowerbed and soothe his pain with a Dornish miracle cure.

After an hour of brooding and trying to gather his thoughts, Beric thought about leaving his shelter and returning to the festival grounds. Maybe, he thought, he could find a quiet corner for Leiff and himself to watch the play and enjoy the food of the feast. Just when he got up from his bed, Ser Lilias' voice echoed in Beric's head and he sat back down. Leiff was probably glad to be left alone. For weeks, he had heard tales of honor and glory and now Beric hadn't lived up to any of them. This was the first tourney Leiff attended as a real page and his knight had earned nothing but ridicule. Of course the boy was disappointed that all his careful consideration had been for naught.

Beric's wandering gaze got caught on the second bed, across the room on the other side of the tent. The guards had set up camp as they always did and assumed Thoros would stay here as usual. Beric felt a lump in his throat when he stared at the bed and the realization that it would stay empty tonight overcame him. Sending Thoros away was the most foolish thing he had ever done, Beric saw that now. Ser Lilias and Ser Elyor would be out of sight and out of mind in a few days. What did it matter what they thought or said? But the damage was done and Beric couldn't think of a way to turn back time and undo it.

 

“I've come to pay my debts.”

Renly's voice startled Beric when the curtain of the tent opened. Renly didn't wait for an invitation and just came in, holding a bottle of wine.

“Keep it,” Beric quietly gave back. “I didn't agree to the bet, so you don't need to pay.”

Renly ignored it and came closer, looked around and placed the bottle on a chest next to the bed. “I shouldn't be surprised anymore, but yet I am.” He sounded chatty and casual and Beric didn't like that tone. He didn't want small talk or wine, he wanted to suffer in silence and be left alone. But it was still the Lord Paramount, so he pulled himself together and slowly looked up.

“Surprised about what?” he asked for the sake of politeness.

“About you not mouthing off about me behind my back,” Renly calmly replied and looked around in the tent. “About you saving me from yet another quarrel with my brother on the way.” He turned back to Beric. “You could have used his distraction to quietly sneak away, hide behind some trees and wait out the storm. But instead you risked your neck to get me out of that tight spot as well.” He paused and nodded to the curtain and the festival grounds somewhere outside. “And about you not meshing well with those stuck-up pricks in their painted armor.”

Beric stared at the bottle on the chest next to him. “So you think I was a fool for trying to impress them,” he concluded.

“Oh, believe me, they are the fools.” Renly laughed. “You should see them, when they flutter around Loras like butterflies around roses. They try so hard to impress him, in hope some of his fame rubs off on them. Try to catch his attention to inflate their fragile egos. Gossip about rivals to make themselves look better and maybe, just maybe, be considered a worthy match for Lady Margaery.” He wandered a few steps around in the tent and regarded a shield for a moment. “Loras finds these things amusing,” he added. “Margaery does not, but she's very good at pretending she's flattered.”

Now Beric looked puzzled and Renly smirked when he noticed the look on his face. “You know how high you could have risen in their eyes with an embellished tale of our little misunderstanding at Storm's End? A nasty rumor about Lady Margaery's suitor would have trumped all their tourney victories and tales of distant realms.”

Beric slightly shook his head. “Aye, and it would have brought me dishonor to speak ill of a man who has always been kind to me.”

Renly returned to the bed and smiled knowingly. “That's why I shouldn't be surprised. You're not the kind of man they are. And now come, we shouldn't let Lady Olenna wait.”

“Lady Olenna?” Beric echoed, confused.

“We'll join her at her table.” Renly turned to leave. “She has an appreciation for more interesting company than butterflies who easily dismiss their oaths to further their ambitions.”

Beric tried to read Renly's tone and expression, unsure if this was a joke. He waited, but when no punchline followed he got up from the bed and made a step toward the exit. Now Renly was quick to move and block the way outside with his arm.

“There's just one thing standing between you and her table,” he said with a smile. “A favor I must ask of you first.”

Beric sighed. So this was a joke, he concluded and his heart sank. “What kind of favor?” he asked, resignation and slight disappointment in his voice. “You want me dress as a jester to be considered entertaining enough?”

Renly shook his head. “You need to make up with your Red Priest, since Loras already invited him earlier. Lady Olenna would hate to have cranky company, I can promise you that.” He held the curtain open and smirked triumphantly at Beric. “He's waiting outside.”

Beric stepped through the exit Renly held open, a silent assertion that there was no other way out. Thoros stood only two steps away from the tent, flanked by Loras and Leiff; as if Beric needed a second reminder that there was no escape. He took a deep breath, straightened his coat and went up to Thoros, head lowered, not daring to meet his gaze. He took another breath, cleared his throat, tried to win time in the futile hope Thoros would speak first and say all was long forgiven. But Thoros didn't. He stood like a tower against the tents and the castle behind them, calm and composed and that just made it worse.

“I...” Beric began and immediately broke off to clear his throat a second time. “I apologize,” he then mumbled, staring down at the grass between their feet. “I treated you badly and I shouldn't have done that. It was an awful thing to say to a friend.” He waited, but Thoros remained silent and listened. “If I could take it back, I'd do so without hesitation,” Beric continued, struggling for words. “I deserved what I got for this mistake and I promise it will never happen again.” Thoros still said nothing and Beric's voice was trembling more with each word. “I was foolish and arrogant and I'll make up for it. I truly value our friendship...” He paused and cautiously peeked up. “If we are still friends...” he added, barely audible, and lowered his gaze again.

For what felt like forever, it was quiet. Even the voices from other tents, the clinking of glasses and the songs from distant minstrels seemed to fade momentarily. Then, finally, Thoros broke the silence.

“Of course we are,” he began and didn't get further. He hadn't even opened his arms fully when Beric accepted the welcoming gesture and grabbed him in a tight hug. Thoros couldn't make out what Beric mumbled against his shoulder and instead of finishing his sentence, he just returned the embrace. “All forgiven,” he whispered to Beric's ear and put a kiss on his temple. “I can forgive foolish mistakes. I've made enough of my own in my time and you have every right to make yours.” From the corner of his eye, he noticed Renly's expression that playfully said 'if I didn't know any better...' and Thoros smirked back with unspoken gratitude. “What will people think if they see you hugging a Red Priest?” he then teasingly whispered to Beric.

“Not my concern.” Beric's voice was muffled by Thoros' cloak, but the tone left no doubt that he meant what he said.

Satisfied with that answer, Thoros ruffled Beric's hair and tried to loosen the hug, with little success. At least Beric looked up now and his gaze briefly grazed Loras. And Thoros recognized the appraising look on Beric's face even if it only lasted for a short moment. The golden boy of House Tyrell and the most famed knight of the realm people called the 'Heart of Chivalry', that was what went through Beric's head. Loras was the allegory of everything he assumed the knights he had tried to impress earlier were and now Beric's worries about making a bad impression were back.

He quickly let go of Thoros and made an attempt to look more composed, then Beric's glance wandered to Renly, back to Loras and finally rested on Leiff. “My apologies for ordering you to stay with the pages. I should not have condemned you to spend the day with little boys and their big dreams of knighthood.” He swallowed and lowered his gaze again. It was not easy for him to say this in front a knight he admired, but he tried to see it though. “And I apologize for disappointing you. I imagine you expected better from me than...” He broke off when Leiff shook his head.

“I forgive the foolish order, you forgive me for not following it,” he said. “I went with Thoros and helped Ser Loras and Lady Margaery to feed the poor outside the gate, so I did learn a few things about chivalry, as you wished.”

Now Beric stared at Loras, not seeking approval, just further explanation. Loras shrugged and smiled innocently and nodded to his arm in the sling. “My sister asked me to find more able hands to unload the wagon, so I thought I'd just borrow a squire,” he gave back, casual and unconcerned.

Beric slowly nodded, but before he could say something, Leiff spoke up again. “And I must apologize to you, my lord. I misread your intentions. Lord Renly explained what made you say the things that upset me and now I understand. I'm not disappointed in you. On the contrary, I'm proud to call you my knight. And if you still wish to do so in the future, I would be honored to accept the promotion to squire.”

“And if you don't, let me know,” Loras added. “I'll make him my squire, just to see Ser Lilias' stupid face.” He paused and regarded Leiff for a moment. “You don't happen to have any brothers?”

“I do,” Leiff replied, laughing. “But my brother likes books much more than swords.”

Renly snickered at Beric's baffled expression. “I forgot to mention that,” he said. “Loras knows someone who can help you regarding promotions. Who would have thought we'd find those answers here, of all places?”

 

﴾ _____________________________________________________________________________________ ﴿

 

The terrace, surrounded by a white-bleached wall of sandstone, lay almost hidden under a large group of trees. Small lanterns and candles illuminated the area, shrouding the long banquet table and the delicacies on it in dim waves of light. The relative seclusion away from the festival grounds and the rose vines climbing up the walls of the castle painted a scene like a drawing found in a fairytale book. Perhaps the most curious part of it was the chatter that filled the warm evening air. Accents from every realm could be heard and some were even from far away shores. Not all of Lady Olenna's guests were lords or ladies or sers.

There was Maester Crego from the Citadel of Oldtown, where he taught students about astronomy and science. He was engaged in a heated discussion with two captains from Braavos who insisted that they owed good winds to the Moon-Pale Maiden they prayed to and it had little to do with star constellations. Two seats away from them a merchant from Lys spoke to a young septa. Unlike the arguing trio next to them, the two women were of the same opinion on what they discussed. What did not fit the peaceful picture on the terrace were the weird sounds that came from a corner, though nobody particularly seemed to mind. The noises came from a man with a sea-rutted face who tried with varying success to produce a melody on a bone-white flute. He sat on the wall fencing the terrace and with him was a group of people that cheered on his attempts. Near them on the banquet table a chair stood abandoned with a rather odd jousting helmet hanging on the backrest. At first sight it was hard to tell which way was the front; the helmet resembled a squid wrapping its tentacles around the wearer's head as if it tried to devour him.

Loras had introduced the strange helmet's owner earlier and Ser Eldrion Thorncliffe had indeed known quite a lot about knighthood detached from the Faith of the Seven. He had also shared stories of his younger and wilder years, when he had risen from his humble beginnings as fisherman to a spectacle for the nobility of the Reach.

“One day I will take him up on that offer,” Loras said and nodded to the corner where Ser Eldrion had returned to spare the minstrel's audience from further unpleasant squeaking of the flute. “The Iron Islands must hold many adventures and challenges. A true test of skill to face the unknown.” He reached for his wine and looked to Beric, across from him on the table. “But I guess I don't need to tell you about that,” Loras added and sighed.

“I've never been to the Iron Islands,” Beric replied, slightly puzzled.

“You've been to the North,” Loras gave back and glared at his cup. “I always wanted to go there, but father says it's too far away to matter and I should build my reputation where it will be seen.” He sneered at the cup and waved for a servant to fill it with more wine. “And here I am, defeating the same dull opponents over and over again.” Loras watched the wine being poured, then looked back up to Beric. “You're lucky, you know? You won all there is to win in the Stormlands, just like I did in the Reach. But you can move on now and forge your own destiny.”

The servant made his way around the table to fill more empty cups and Beric didn't decline. His glance wandered from Loras to Thoros, disbelief in his eyes. “You heard about my victories in the Stormlands?” he cautiously inquired when he looked back to Loras.

Loras dryly laughed and took a sip from his wine. “Who hasn't?” he gave back. “After all, I have to keep an eye on my competition.” He grinned, not paying attention to Beric's incredulous expression. “I did defeat Ser Dustyn,” Loras continued. “Right after he won the last victory at Banefort to complete his conquest of the Westerlands. He still doesn't speak to me.” He laughed and toasted to Beric. “I hope you won't hold a grudge when we fight it out one day.”

“You seem quite confident in coming out victorious,” Thoros interjected. “That's quite a boast, coming from a man with his arm in a sling.”

Loras shot him a glare, but he didn't seem angry. “It won't stay in that sling forever,” he said. “And maybe you're right. Maybe running out of real competition left me too used to victories. Grandmother says it builds character to lose every once in a while.” His eyes narrowed as his glance jumped to Beric, still quiet and stunned by the direction of this conversation. “That doesn't mean I'll make it easy for you. Just that I'd rather lose to my equal than to a dolt like Ser Elyor. I still can't believe father knighted him. All his victories were flukes.”

“I've seen you both on the lists many times.” Thoros leaned back with an air of importance. “I know exactly who to bet on when the day comes.” Beric and Loras immediately glared at him with unveiled demands sparkling in their eyes. Thoros smirked and stretched his arms, drank a long sip from his wine and took a deep breath. But before he could reveal his pick or even begin to speak, he was interrupted by Lady Margaery, who seemed upset.

“I don't believe this!” she huffed, dragging Renly with her to the table. She took a seat next to Beric, but she looked at Loras. “I hope grandmother makes father see reason!” Renly chuckled and sat down next to her and he apparently knew better than to make an attempt at calming her down. When Loras didn't react and calmly reached for his wine, Margaery paused. Her eyes fell on Beric and her anger quickly made way for a smile. “My apologies,” she said in a much sweeter tone. “That was not very ladylike, was it? Let me try again.” She cleared her throat and feigned a formal and serious tone. “It is a pleasure to see you, Lord Beric. I'm glad you and your friend could join us tonight.” She chuckled at Thoros, then her glance jumped back to Loras and Margaery continued where she had left off. “Father told me to be gracious and accept the compliment for what it is! If grandmother doesn't talk any sense into him, I expect you to...”

“What is it?” Loras cut her off. “If I don't know what upset my sweet sister, I can't do a thing about it, can I?”

“What do you think it is?” Margaery still sounded angry. “Ser Elyor, as usual.”

Now Loras snickered and stopped poking a piece of roast on his plate. “Again?” He tried to not laugh when his sister nodded with a serious glare. “You'd think he'd finally understand that you have no interest in his lance.”

Margery huffed and looked to Renly, who held back his chuckles as well. She rolled her eyes and turned to Beric and Thoros, hoping to garner more support for her position from them. “Ever since father knighted him, Ser Elyor fancies himself my future husband,” she explained, more composed yet still not hiding the annoyance in her voice. “Right after the ceremony he took me aside and told me he dreams of me handling his lance.” She paused and her brow furrowed. “In more detail than I could ever demand.” Renly and Loras both snickered now and didn't succeed in holding back their laughter when Margaery rolled her eyes at them.

“The really upsetting part about it is...” Renly tried to sound serious and important and failed at both. “His lance isn't that impressive and I have heard from several sources that he's not very good at wielding it either.”

Loras and Thoros simultaneously almost spit out their wine, Margaery feigned indignation, but couldn't help snickering, Renly still smirked and Beric's glance jumped back and forth between them in a desperate attempt to figure out what to do. Margaery regained her composure first. “A pompous boor _and_ a liar!” She turned back to Beric. “And I'm told to be gracious about it all!”

“You are right to be upset, my lady,” Beric replied after a reassuring side glance to Thoros. “Such behavior is very dishonorable. Ser Elyor should show respect and apologize.”

“Finally, someone speaks sense!” Margaery triumphantly smiled and cheered up. “I wish someone would tell my father. Had Renly not saved me, I might be betrothed to that impertinent buffoon now!”

“I'll speak to Ser Elyor again.” Loras nodded to his arm in the sling. “As soon as I'm able to deliver the message.”

A sighed sneer from behind the chairs made Renly and Thoros quickly stand up. Though the Tyrell siblings both remained seated, Beric tried to get up as well, as he had a good idea who was approaching.

“Oh, stop it already.” The old woman seemed amused with a touch of slight irritation. “Sit down, sit down. If anyone understands the appeal of a comfortable chair, she stands right before you.”

Thoros obliged and Beric followed his example, just Renly went behind the chair on the head of the table to pull it out for Lady Olenna. “That's better,” she said, satisfied, when everyone was seated. “All I need now is cup of good wine and a less faltering son.”

Margaery sighed as she heard the last part of her grandmother's wish. “Father didn't agree to ban him from our tourneys?”

Lady Olenna shook her head and took the wine a servant had rushed to bring her. “He tells me your brother can handle it,” she replied, annoyance echoing in each of her words.

“Loras thinks it is funny!” Margaery huffed.

“Why do I need to handle everything?” Loras asked, his voice now defiant. “If I recall correctly I have two older brothers.” He shot a glance across the table to Renly, but refrained from adding that Margaery was his lady and therefore this should be his concern.

Thoros could almost see the thoughts behind Beric's eyes while they witnessed the conversation. 'This is Lady Olenna', one thought importantly declared. 'The true power of the Reach! You can't risk offending her, so keep your mouth shut unless you're directly asked to speak.' But there was another thought demanding to be given attention. 'Lady Margaery is right to be upset and it is unknightly of her brother to not defend her. If Ser Loras won't stand up for her honor, someone else needs to step up to the task!' A battle between two equally knightly thoughts raged behind the stoic facade and Thoros made a silent bet with himself which one would win.

“Because your brothers sit with your father and you sit with me this year,” Olenna sharply explained to her sullen grandson. “You have the public's attention, so it is up to you to put your foot down.” With that out of the way, she turned to Beric and her stern expression made way for a smile. “What are your thoughts on the matter?” she asked, now almost chatty. “I'm sure you have an opinion.”

Beric froze like a fawn caught in a storm, startled by the first rolling thunder. He shot a side glance to Thoros, then reached for his wine to drink a quick sip and looked back to Lady Olenna. “Lady Margaery is rightfully angry,” he firmly said after clearing his throat. “Ser Elyor is out of line to behave in such ways. Not only does he disrespect his host's daughter, he also stooped so low as to insult my page for nothing more than being born in the North. Lord Tyrell should exclude him from tourneys, as his daughter demands.” Margaery smiled and nodded and that seemed to encourage Beric to add to his statement. “And it is every knight's duty to defend Lady Margaery's honor, kin or not.”

Not a breeze rustled the crowns of the trees, not a bird sang in the gardens. For a short eternity, the world stood perfectly still until Lady Olenna breathed it back to life with a smile. “And I was beginning to think chivalry is dead,” she said and shot a brief reprimanding glance to Loras, who had resumed his efforts and poked the slice of roast with his fork. “If only I had another granddaughter for you,” she turned back to Beric and reached for her wine. “Or if I was thirty, no, forty years younger...”

Beric blushed and his eyes darted to Thoros, silently asking for help, for a hint of what to say. But Lady Olenna did not expect a reaction, she seemed satisfied with what she had heard. “Ser Elyor, his cousin, the entire brood of House Brightfield deserves to be exiled to the deepest corners of the North,” she continued. “They act like wildlings wherever they go. At least they would not be a bother behind that huge wall.” She leaned to Renly and Margaery. “Ser Lilias came to me earlier and showed me a new piece of armor. And he was so proud that his helmet was blue!” She laughed and shook her head. “Why would that impress me? Can he not tell a golden rose from a corn flower? Poor fool, he should be reminded that roses have thorns.”

The group on the table laughed and Lady Olenna turned to Renly with a grandmotherly smile. “I admit, at first I was not sure about you,” she said. “If my son approves of a suitor, it makes me suspicious. Not hard to see why, he surrounds himself with bumbling buffoons. I'm glad I kept an open mind and listened to Margaery.” She absently reached for Loras' hand and patted it. “You may have your shortcomings, but none I can't overlook.” As she said it, Lady Olenna appraisingly looked at Beric, then paused for a moment to see if he would react. Beric didn't. He seemed more at ease since the snide remarks about the knights who had tormented him earlier and now he just casually drank from his wine. Lady Olenna exchanged one last reassuring glance with Renly and he answered with a brief subtle nod. “But enough of us and our dull affairs,” Lady Olenna turned back to Beric. “You mentioned a page born in the North. Now that's more interesting. Tell me how that came to be.”

 

﴾ _____________________________________________________________________________________ ﴿

 

“Thoros? You are missed at the table.” Beric looked almost bashful when Thoros turned around to him. “Lady Olenna asked me to tell about our stay at the Nightfort. She called over several people to listen as well. I thought you might want to join us and...” He broke off and shot a quick worried glance over his shoulder.

“We'll be right there,” Thoros replied and reached for a bottle on the terrace's white sandstone wall. “Just give us a moment to finish this up. It's the last bottle and we're not keen to share.” Beric nodded and undecidedly made a step back.

“I will wait for you before I begin then,” he said and made another few steps toward to the long table, leaving Thoros and Renly to their rare vintage.

Renly's gaze followed Beric until he was out of earshot, then he drank a sip from his glass and wrinkled his nose in utter disgust. “Frankly, I'm quite keen to share this swill with the flowers, but I'm afraid they'd wither and die if I did.” Thoros chuckled and wordlessly took the glass from Renly's hand to pour the drink down. “We shouldn't let him wait,” Renly said while he watched Beric, still walking slowly in an attempt to win time. “Ser Lilias left a lasting impression on him. He's been very quiet all evening unless you were by his side.”

Thoros took a swig from his own glass and nodded. “I noticed,” he gave back and sighed. “If I had known how badly things went for him, I would have swallowed my pride and ignored the request to stay far away.”

Renly looked back to Thoros. “I can't blame you for being angry,” he said and his voice had a more thoughtful tone when he continued. “What I don't understand is why he didn't come to me during the tourney. I would have been grateful for some distraction.” He paused and shuddered when Thoros emptied his glass. “Ser Lilias may be bold, but not even he would dare to insult the North in front of the king. Yet Beric stayed away from where my brother had chained me and I only heard after the fact what had happened.”

“Today he should have learned who his friends are,” Thoros replied and put the glasses down on the wall. “But I fear all he found were adversaries.” He took the almost empty bottle to drink the rest directly from it and glanced over to Beric, still stalling his return to the table. “Might be time to open his eyes and help him look in the right direction,” he added.

“He is lucky to have you,” Renly replied with a smirk and took the empty bottle from Thoros' hand. “We should go back now. Lady Olenna does not like to wait.”

“What about the private matter you asked to discuss?” Thoros quizzically regarded Renly as he turned to go.

“We already discussed it,” Renly gave back with a smug smile. “People have taken note of us drinking together. I should appear suitably drunk now. It adds credibility later, when Loras gallantly takes me to his chambers and makes sure his drunk friend doesn't do anything stupid at night.”

 

﴾ _____________________________________________________________________________________ ﴿

 

Beric lay on his stomach, arms crossed under his chin. He looked drowsy, but happy and Thoros almost expected him to purr like a cat when he stroked Beric's head. “You won't like to hear this,” he said, chuckling to himself. “But sometimes you're fucking adorable.”

“Aye, you're right,” Beric gave back matter-of-factly. “I don't like it.”

“Not much you can do about it.” Thoros laughed and kept running his hand through Beric's hair.

Now Beric slightly lifted his head to skeptically regard Thoros from the corner of his eye. “How does that happen?” he asked, as if he made a plan to avoid such circumstances and collected the facts. “What makes me 'fucking adorable'?”

“It just happens,” Thoros replied. “You're adorable now. You were adorable during the tale of the Nightfort. You looked very happy when you told it, so maybe it's that.”

“Of course I was happy,” Beric replied, a bit irritated. He seemed to have expected the crucial piece of information for his strategy to avoid being adorable and Thoros hadn't delivered it. “Everyone knows you and the tales of your deeds. For you, it's normal that people fall over themselves to listen when you speak. For me, it's not.” He stubbornly stared at the tent's wall and his gaze got caught on shadows flickering in the dim light. “You know what happens when I try to chat about my travels? When you aren't there to attract the attention?” Thoros shook his head, but Beric didn't wait for an answer. “People don't show interest and quickly excuse themselves to greet somebody, get a new drink or find other distractions. And they don't come back.” He sighed, still staring at the wall. “I know I'm not a good storyteller and it's rare people give me a chance to improve.” The defiance faded from his voice when he looked over to Thoros and the frown turned into a wistful smile. “Tonight people listened and found my story engaging. For once I had something to say that was welcome and that nobody called dumb or dull.”

Thoros regarded him thoughtfully. “Is that why you told me to stay away from you?” he asked after a while. “Because you think you're invisible next to me?”

Beric's smile disappeared as he hesitantly nodded. “I didn't mean to be unkind,” he quietly said. “It's not your fault that you cast such a large shadow. I just wanted to be noticed for who I am, not for the renowned company I keep.” He sighed again and inched closer to Thoros. “But I learned my lesson. If I want to be seen, I have to cling to your coattails.”

Thoros shook his head and ruffled Beric's hair. “Everyone keeps talking about my valor at Pyke,” he began. “You know what really happened there?” Beric shrugged undecidedly. “Neither do I,” Thoros continued. “I have no recollection of the battle I'm known for. All I have is the tales I was told in the morning and to this day I'm not sure if I really stormed any gates. Sometimes I think that maybe it's all an elaborate joke people agreed to tell, just to see if the foreign madman would buy it.” He laughed when Beric shot him an incredulous glance. “Probably not, because it sure sounds like something I'd do. Either way, you have achievements and you even remember them. That's the hard part. Telling tales about them is a thing you can learn.”

“And you can teach me that?” Beric concluded, now sounding more hopeful.

Thoros nodded. “Any dimwit can set a sword ablaze if he's just daring enough. Wielding words is a more delicate art even I had to learn before becoming a master. You won't find a more skillful teacher than me.”

The smile returned to Beric's lips. “I imagine I won't,” he said. “And it would be a hollow victory to get recognition for who I am if I had to trade it for you. Your friendship is part of who I am and I would not want to miss it.”

“And sometimes being adorable is part of who you are, too.” Thoros grinned and put a kiss on Beric's head.

Beric's brow furrowed again and he thought for a moment. “Fine, _you_ may find me adorable then. _Sometimes_. And nobody else.”

“I'm honored, my lord.” Thoros chuckled and let Beric snuggle against him some closer. “But what about Renly? Don't you think you owe him that much after he played peacemaker for us?”

“No.” Beric looked and sounded stern again. “I doubt Renly finds me 'adorable' to begin with.”

Thoros nodded earnestly. “Not when he is sober, no.”

Again, Beric furrowed his brow in thought. “He drank a lot tonight,” he then noted.

“That's an understatement.” Thoros snickered and his hand wandered down Beric's spine. “I wouldn't be surprised if he out-drank his brother for once.”

Beric turned a bit to face Thoros. “What are you trying to tell me?” he inquired.

“Nothing, nothing,” Thoros replied with an innocent smile and absently felt for knots and stiff muscles on Beric's shoulders.

“What did he say?” Beric demanded with an impatient glare, but instead of answering, Thoros just laughed and continued his search. “Tell me what Renly said!” Beric repeated and before he could say anything else, he jumped when he felt a slap and a firm squeeze, a good distance away from his shoulders.

“He didn't 'say' anything,” Thoros said, laughing. “He asked me about the qualities of your behind though and he was quite insistent that I tell him all I know.”

Beric swallowed when Thoros' words sank in. He shot a brief glance over his shoulder, as if to make sure his qualities were indeed in best order, then he looked back to Thoros. “And... what did you tell him?” he cautiously asked.

Thoros was still laughing to himself, even more when he saw Beric's baffled expression. “The truth, of course!” he declared. “I said your arse is fucking adorable!” Beric stared at him, struggling for words. “What?” Thoros snickered. “He's the Lord Paramount and the king's brother. If he asks a question, I'm obliged to tell him the truth. And if it puts your mind at ease, I think he was rather pleased to hear that. Loras came over to help him to bed before Renly could put his approval into intelligible words though.”

Beric's eyes widened and it took a moment until he had gathered his thoughts. He carefully inched closer to rest his head back on Thoros' arm. “How would you even know 'the truth'?” he sheepishly asked.

“I have an excellent memory,” Thoros explained. “It's only been a little over a year since I had to clean you up in King's Landing. I remember every adorable thing like it was yesterday.”

He snickered when Beric buried his face deeper in the pillow. Maybe it was just the dim light, but his cheeks seemed to absorb the deep red color of it. “I hope you don't mean that _everything_ about me is 'adorable'...” Beric mumbled into the pillow. Thoros almost choked on his laughter when he realized where Beric's mind went.

“Of course not,” he said, trying to hide his increasing amusement under the most serious tone he could muster. “My first thought when I peeled you out of your pants was 'impressive' and I knew I'd have to be very careful to say so out loud. That's dangerous knowledge and if it reached the wrong ears, I dread to think what would happen.” Beric glared at him from the corner of his eye. Thoros took a deep breath, as if to underline the importance of the insights that followed. “If your qualities were known, I fear that otherwise good, decent men across Westeros would take up arms, mad with envy. And you'd stand no chance to fight them all off because you'd be too distracted with the pleasures every lass from Dorne to the North would bestow upon you.”

The color of Beric's cheeks had perfectly merged with that of the pillow. “You're a liar,” he said with a sulky glare and a pout.

Thoros shook his head. “Liar, that's not a very kind word. I prefer to think of myself as a poet instead. A minstrel maybe. Either way, it's not lying. It's knowing a good tale when I see one.”

“I'm beginning to think it is a bad idea to learn the art of storytelling from you,” Beric mumbled and found a new hideout on Thoros' shoulder. “I will remember to never let you catch me without smallclothes again if that's how you find inspiration.”

“No need to,” Thoros assured him. “Like I said, I have a good memory. But your secret is safe with me. I won't tell anyone. You only have to worry if envy gets the better of me one day and so far, I'm holding up fine.” Beric quietly glared at him and tried to shake Thoros' hand off his head. The attempt didn't succeed; Thoros kept running his fingers through Beric's hair undeterred. “I'm just joking,” he quietly said, realizing Beric still didn't catch on about this being all said in jest. “I didn't tell anyone anything.” Beric regarded him quizzically, deciding if he should believe it. “I didn't describe your adorable buttocks to Renly,” Thoros spelled it out. Beric shot him another long glare, trying to look reproachful, but he could not hide the relief enough to succeed. “Discretion is the first lesson one learns at court,” Thoros added. “Now that you know who your friends are, it appears you still have to learn a lot about them.”

Now Beric looked puzzled. “Are you saying Renly is my friend?” he asked after some hesitation.

Thoros raised an eyebrow. “What would you call him? Your Lord Paramount? I think you're past such formalities by now. Before his silver tongue got so heavy, Renly mentioned he invited you to his name day celebration at court. Sounds like something friends do, wouldn't you say?”

“I thought that was just a polite gesture,” Beric replied. “Because he's the Lord Paramount of the Stormlands and my house is sworn to his... And as a courtesy to you.”

“What in the world made you draw that conclusion?” Thoros laughed quietly and got back a brief angry pout. “Renly invited me to rob his brother of the joy of sending me in his place again. That's the favor to me, my relief from the burden to be an inconvenience in the name of the king. But you, against insurmountable odds, have not yet become a pawn in their brotherly war. There's no ulterior motive behind your invitation.” Thoros eyed the bottle of Arbor Gold that still stood on the chest where Renly had left it. “You don't need charades and embellished stories to be noticed. And if it escaped you, Loras likes you as well,” he added and slowly reached for the wine.

“That's for Anguy.” Beric slapped Thoros' hand away from the bottle. Thoros broke off his approach and put his arm back over Beric's shoulders. “I know Loras likes me,” Beric continued, his tone still a bit sulky. “He said so and he doesn't speak in riddles like you do with Renly.”

Thoros laughed and slightly shook his head to himself before leaning closer to Beric's ear. “There, it happens again,” he whispered and grinned. “And there's nothing you can do about it, my fucking adorable lord.”


	15. Within A Mile Of Home

The basalt walls of Blackhaven stood against the bright summer sky like a fortress of night. Unlike the Nightfort the sight of this dark keep did not make Beric shiver, there were no apparitions here nor freezing cold. A brisk breeze brought refreshment to the dry heat trapped inside when the gates opened and welcomed him home.

The courtyard was busy with life, bustling in every building and filling the air with a melody of noises Beric had missed. The blacksmith's tools clanked, the weavers' loom rattled and somebody in the kitchens was singing, off-key yet with great enthusiasm. Some children laughed while dabbling in the a fountain's cool spring water, horses whinnied through the open gates of the stables and the cawing of birds echoed around the peaked roof of the Lightning Tower.

Beric spotted Anguy outside the stable, standing next to a barrel and holding a bucket. He was about to fill it, probably to water the horses, though he looked like he'd rather be taking a break from his work. Beric carefully approached, hidden behind corners and carts and managed to sneak up from behind unnoticed, the bottle of Arbor Gold in his hand. Anguy dropped the bucket into the water when Beric's arm moved into sight and held the wine under his nose.

“The dowry I owe you.” Beric smirked when Anguy grabbed the bottle with both hands, as if there was a chance his prey might escape. Slowly Anguy turned around and looked up from the wine to Beric, trying to put the two together and having trouble with it.

“ _You_ bought me wine?” he asked with an incredulous smile.

“I didn't buy it,” Beric admitted, still smirking. “I won it in a bet.”

Anguy shot him a blank stare, then looked back at the bottle. “ _You_ made a _bet_?” he repeated, disbelief in his voice. “What did you wager on? Who bet against you?”

Beric snickered at the confusion he sparked. “I didn't make it,” he said. “But if I had, I would have won. Renly paid his debt nonetheless. He said King Robert can't resist knighting my page when they went inside a brothel, but...”

“Wait.” Anguy shook his head and regarded Beric with a serious expression. “I heard that right, you bet against Lord Renly of Storm's End that King Robert...” He paused and thought for a moment and the puzzled look returned to his face. “...would not knight your page in a brothel?” Beric silently nodded with a big smile and Anguy reached for the edge of the barrel. “I think I might faint,” he said and pretended to stumble backwards.

“Do you want me to get Maester Jeon?” Beric jokingly offered, feigning concern. “Maybe you should let me hold the bottle. You surely would not want to drop such a...”

“No, I'm fine!” Anguy immediately gave up his pretense, cradled the precious prize in his arms and took another step back. He appraisingly regarded Beric for a short while. “How many girls did you fuck since we last spoke?” he asked in a furtive tone and with narrowed eyes. “And how many bastards did you bring home?”

Beric's smug smile made way for an annoyed glare. “None and none,” he gave back, but before the annoyance could grow into anger, Anguy pulled him in for a tight hug.

“You had me really worried,” he said, squeezing Beric so hard that he gave him trouble breathing. “I thought you might be a long lost twin or an imposter, but that finally sounds like you are really... you.”

Beric shot him a reproachful glance, but he smiled when Anguy let go of him. “If there was an imposter, I'm sure he'd have better things to do than trying to fool you,” he retorted.

Anguy smirked and kicked the bucket he had dropped to the ground. “I need to water the horses,” he said. “But it seems you had quite the adventure without me. If you don't want me to sulk all day, you better tell me the details real soon.”

“I will.” Beric looked around on the yard. “But my adventures must wait until later. I need to speak to my father and get my page settled in.”

“Your father rode to Stonehelm a few days ago,” Anguy replied and picked up the bucket. “To hunt with Lord Swann, I believe. But you'll have to ask Maester Jeon about that.” He tried to stuff the bottle in his belt and soon realized that plan would not work.

“I'll keep that safe for you,” Beric offered and held out his hand for the wine. Anguy skeptically glared at him, but he handed it over.

“See, that's why it's important to make sure you really are who you say you are”, he gave back. “I know I can trust you. But an imposter might drink it.”

 

﴾ _____________________________________________________________________________________ ﴿

 

Maester Jeon turned around from the perch when he heard steps from the door of the rookery. The falcon he had been feeding paid no attention to the three visitors and kept ripping apart a piece of meat with its beak. Unlike the indifferent bird, Maester Jeon smiled when he saw who had returned to Blackhaven. He put down the bowl with the meat on a small table and shuffled over to greet them.

“It is good to see you came home, my lord,” he said. “I was beginning to fear you took the black and stayed in the North.”

“I did,” Beric gave back with a chuckle. “Though only briefly and I can assure you I prefer my black and purple. And the Southern climate as well.” He looked to Leiff, who stood silently next to him. “But I did bring some of the North back with me.”

Maester Jeon's eyes wandered to the boy and Beric made introductions while Thoros began to stroll around in the room. There were ravens here like in every castle, but there were also other sights he hadn't yet seen. Falcons and hawks of different sizes sat on perches and were busy devouring pieces of meat. Only few of the birds were not in cages: the falcon the maester had fed when they entered the room and on the back of the chair by the table sat a large brown owl. Its big yellow eyes followed Thoros with a stern curiosity and almost kingly disdain for an unruly subject. Thoros found brief amusement in slowly walking around the bird, just to see how far its head would spin around to watch him. Distracted by this staring contest he didn't notice how close he stepped to the falcon. When the bird angrily cawed and flapped, perhaps suspecting competition for its food, Thoros quickly fled back to the door and stepped out on the parapet walk, leaving the owl as the winner of their staredown.

 

“So it was you, as father suspected.” Leiff triumphantly grinned and Beric looked flustered.

“You didn't say this was to be done in secret, my lord!” Maester Jeon reached for the bowl on the table to offer the falcon a new piece of meat.

“I didn't know if my idea would work out as planned,” Beric said, looking at Leiff. “I didn't want to instill false hopes if it didn't.”

“How dare you to doubt me?” Maester Jeon snickered to himself and held his arm out to let the falcon, meat in its beak, step on the thick leather bracer. “I may have left the Citadel a long time ago, but I can still pull some strings if it's needed.”

“My apologies, maester.” Beric chuckled and watched the old man waddle across the room to put the falcon back in its cage. “I won't make that mistake ever again.” He turned to Leiff and motioned toward the door. “Go ahead, wait outside with Thoros. You'll meet my mother and our master-at-arms, then I show you your quarters. If my father returns tomorrow as expected, I will introduce you to him then. ”

“You're always welcome to visit me,” Maester Jeon added before Leiff went outside.

 

“What are you two snickering about?” Beric stopped outside the door where Thoros and Leiff leaned on the banister of the parapet walk and tried to look serious and innocent while watching the yard.

“Nothing, my lord,” Leiff replied. “I'm not snickering. I just like the keep and look forward to meet your mother.”

Beric's skeptical glance wandered to Thoros. “And what are you not snickering at?” he inquired.

“Oh, I'm not snickering at all either, my fledgl... my lord,” Thoros replied with feigned earnestness.

Beric grumbled and glared at him, waiting for a better explanation.

Thoros exchanged a brief glance with Leiff, looked back to the door of the rookery and then up to the sky as if it held the answer. Leiff followed his example and let his gaze wander, first to the roof, then down the tower and back to the bustle on the courtyard below.

“You _were_ snickering,” Beric noted, regarding his companions with quizzical suspicion.

After a short silence of innocently looking around, Thoros turned back to Beric. “You know, we saw you pet the owl,” he casually said and Beric's brow immediately furrowed. “Right after Leiff left the rookery and joined me out here.”

“Were you talking to it?” Leiff inquired just as blithely. “I was certain I heard you whisper, but Thoros said his fledgling denies he speaks the language of birds.” Beric glared at Thoros without saying anything and his annoyance was met with a roguish smile. “The sigil of my house shows an owl, but I have never seen a tame one,” Leiff continued. “And not such a big one. We have snow owls in the North. They are much smaller than yours.”

“Get out of your huff.” Thoros smirked when Beric still remained silent, though his expression now softened a bit. “And introduce us to your feathered friend. We're curious and I think it's ado...”

“Alright,” Beric quickly cut him off and shot him a reprimanding glare. “But you stop calling me 'fledgling'.”

“Of course, my lord,” Thoros gave back. “That would not be proper.” He stepped aside to let Beric through to the door and lazily bowed. “After you, Lord Sunshine.”

Beric sighed, but kept walking. “I should have seen that coming,” he muttered to himself.

 

﴾ _____________________________________________________________________________________ ﴿

 

Evening came and the air slowly cooled down, but the heat still stood sticky and stale under the roof of the barn. Soon the commoners would lay down their work and hurry to get the best spots on hay stacks and blankets to sit comfortably when Thoros told them new tales. His arrival had been noted the moment the gates of Blackhaven opened and it had sparked much excitement. Thoros had assured everyone that they'd get their stories once he'd have settled in. Beric paced up and down by a window, Thoros sat on a hay stack and watched.

“What if they insist that you speak to them?” Beric stopped a few steps away from Thoros, but did not turn around. He studied the floor as if it held the answer and wiped around some straws with his foot.

“They won't,” Thoros replied and the lack of concern in his voice made Beric look over.

“They expect to hear your stories,” he said. “You're the one who invited them here.”

Thoros shrugged and reached for a basket with bottles to pull one of them out. “Come here,” he gave back, still unconcerned. Beric quizzically raised an eyebrow, but when no further explanation came he walked over. Thoros put his bottle away and got up from the hay stack, took off his red cloak and threw it over Beric's shoulders. “That should do it,” he said and sat back down.

Beric glared at him and straightened the cloak. “How is that going to fool anyone? Is this your idea of helping me to become a better storyteller?”

Thoros chuckled and shook his head, then patted the hay stack next to him. “Sit down, my lord.” Beric still didn't look convinced, but he obliged. “First of all,” Thoros began and put his arm around Beric's shoulder. “People come to listen to tales of our adventures. Ours. Not mine. They won't care which of us tells them.” He picked up the bottle and put it in Beric's hand. “And second, I'm not sure anyone would recognize me without the cloak or a flaming sword.”

Beric seemed to relax a bit and opened the bottle. “I still doubt this disguise will do any good,” he said, smirking. “People will know something is wrong when Thoros of Myr sends his page for ale instead of more wine.”

“That's better.” Thoros laughed and pulled Beric closer to put a kiss on his head. “Storytelling is about having fun. Now you begin to get the gist of it.” He nodded to the ladder where they could see Leiff climb up to the attic. “And you can learn a thing or two about that from him as well.”

 

“Where have you been?” Beric asked when Leiff sat down with them. “Did you not know where to find us?”

Leiff shook his head. “No, my lord,” he replied. “I have a good sense of direction. I went back to the rookery to speak to your maester.” He smirked. “And to pet the owl again.”

Beric laughed and took a cautious sip from the wine. “You're lucky Stormclaw likes you,” he said. “My uncle and his falconer train birds for hunting and they both got some nasty scratches on their last visit. Owls have a mind of their own, no matter how tame. If they dislike you, you'll know it.”

“Maester Jeon told me how he tried to train your owl like a raven. How it tore up the first scroll it was given to shreds and never even attempted to carry it anywhere.” Leiff chuckled, glanced to the baskets with food and took out a piece of hard cheese. “And about your attempts as a boy to hunt rabbits with it. He did not reveal if you were ever successful.”

“I wasn't,” Beric admitted. “Mice, rats and a few times a squirrel.” He hesitated and drank some more wine, then offered the bottle to Thoros. “Frankly, Stormclaw is not the smartest of pets,” he continued, now sounding amused. “When I was ten work on a new well began on the small yard behind the kitchens. The carpenters hadn't added a roof yet and left it uncovered one day. Stormclaw dove into the shaft, probably after spotting a mouse there.” He gestured for a bottle of ale and Leiff got up to move the basket closer to him. Beric took the bottle and opened it, then continued the story. “Anguy and I chased after it and saw the owl sitting at the bottom, unable to fly out as the shaft was too narrow and steep. We spent all afternoon kneeling on the edge with a bucket tied to a rope, trying to lure Stormclaw into it to pull it back up.”

“And the beast is heavy!” Anguy laughed and climbed up the last stairs of the ladder. “Beric can sing a song about that. It took the owl months to learn that it couldn't just land on his arm anymore when it got bigger. One time it approached in full flight and knocked him over into a fountain.”

 

﴾ _____________________________________________________________________________________ ﴿

 

Beric's worries about not being wanted as entertainer by Blackhaven's workers had quickly dispersed. After the barn's attic had filled with a curious audience, Thoros had made a halfhearted claim about his throat being sore. Some rare vintage he had tried in the Reach was responsible, probably, he said. Nobody seemed too interested in the details, instead the gathered crowd turned to Beric with eyes full of expectation. And he did not disappoint them. Thoros' cloak and his habit of choosing wine over ale worked small wonders on Beric. He began with the tourney in King's Landing and Ser Aydan's invitation to travel together up North.

“Your cousin is an annoying bugger, if I've ever seen one!” Jasry, the armorer, cheerfully declared when Beric reluctantly brought up Rowland's incessant chatter and pranks in White Harbor. “He's been a pain in the arse ever since he was young and it sounds like he never outgrew being a dolt. Kept hiding tools the one time he visited and an apprentice caught him trying to piss into a newly made helmet as well.”

“Now you hear it!” Anguy triumphantly grinned. “I was not playing pranks on an innocent squire. I did what had to be done to defend our lord.”

Two of the guards who had been to White Harbor, Teryn and Yanic, nodded in strong agreement. Jasry laughed and slapped Anguy's shoulder. “After that sudden outburst of chivalry you might make a decent hedge knight after all.”

Anguy playfully pouted and shot Jasry a reproachful glance. “I have all the chivalry I need for that. The real problem is the price of your armor!”

“You could always go to the Wall,” Yanic suggested in jest. “They give out free armor to the rangers and have the brothers swear oaths. You'd be a Black Knight of the Wall at no cost that way.”

“I'll consider it.” Anguy smirked and leaned back against a hay stack. “I once had a friend, Kealan Hill, who said he'd join the Night's Watch if his father would not legitimize him. Haven't seen him in years, so maybe he did and now fights giants beyond the Wall.”

“Don't.” Leiff shot him a gloomy glare across the baskets of food and drink. “I doubt you'd like life at Castle Black. You don't sound like the kind of man who would find happiness there.”

Thoros nodded and emptied his wine. “Listen to him,” he said. “While it was fun to visit for a few days, I don't think you'd find anything that interests you there. Snow and cold wind, grumpy bothers in black, awful food and the only lass on the Wall is the ghost of Brave Danny Flint.”

“She may have been an archer,” Beric added. “But I doubt you have much in common with her. I hear she does not take kindly to Southern men.”

Anguy laughed and pulled a basket with bottles closer. “What a day it would have to be that I'd take your advice about women.” He blindly grabbed a bottle and opened it. “A lass who knows about archery just makes things more intriguing! If it's as cold as you say, she won't look to closely what man keeps her warm.”

“If you didn't catch that part, she died long ago,” Leiff said. He chuckled when Anguy looked disappointed and shrugged.

“Maybe then it's really not worth the long way.” Anguy took a pull from his bottle. “Hedge knight it is, if Jasry ever lowers the prices.”

Leiff sighed. “I wish it was always this easy to talk people out of joining the Watch,” he said, then he looked to Beric and cut him off before he could speak. “But that is a matter for another day. I'm sure everyone is excited to hear about our night at the Nightfort and the restless souls lingering there.”

“Aye, that's true,” Thoros agreed. He coughed to remind the audience of his sore throat when all eyes wandered back over to him. “I needed a lot wine to drown my dread there. We're lucky Beric was braver and can recall the details that escape me.” Beric doubtfully regarded him from the side, silently questioning Thoros' claim of being afraid. “Don't worry, my lord,” Thoros added. “I know the ghosts are far away in the North. With so much distance between me and the hauntings I don't mind hearing the tales about them anymore.”

 

﴾ _____________________________________________________________________________________ ﴿

 

The hour was late when Thoros and Beric stopped on the parapet walk outside the guest chambers. Their audience had left the barn well entertained a short while ago and returned to their quarters to get a good night's rest. Now Blackhaven was sleeping and Beric was not. He was wide awake, tipsy and quite happily so. This time Anguy had thought to bring enough ale to the barn's attic, just for Beric to thank him for being so thoughtful and not drinking a single sip from it while telling his tales. Wearing Thoros' red cloak had bestowed a curious appreciation for the wine upon him and that had certainly helped to loosen his tongue.

“I enjoyed this evening.” Beric tumbled against the banister, leaned on it as if the collision was planned and looked down to the yard. “But I still don't think it was right that Leiff and you slipped in so many lies about our journey.” He turned his head to look at Thoros like a strict maester. “I will have a word about this with Leiff. You set a bad example for him tonight.”

“Did I?” Thoros chuckled and joined Beric on the banister. “It's not lying if you embellish a tale. Sometimes a vivid imagination and a good memory simply get mixed up.”

Beric's eyes narrowed at the mention of Thoros' good memory and he tried to stare him down, without real success. “You did,” he replied. “We did not come across footprints in the snow when we reached the ward by the towers. You lied about that. And the trail of blood Leiff claimed to have seen wasn't there either.”

Thoros ruffled Beric's hair, then put the arm over his shoulder. “And who will ever know? Who can tell if I truly saw a shadowy figure stalk us in the tunnel? Who can confirm Leiff really noticed a giant white rat in the kitchen?”

“Gundar,” Beric defiantly gave back.

“Gundar...” Thoros laughed. “And which of these men will ever visit the Wall, find the right crow and ask for validation?” He paused and waited, but Beric was stumped for an answer. “And even if somebody seeks Gundar out to confirm our claims, he'll tell them a very different story,” Thoros continued. “He's not going to say that he got scared by a boy's tale and feared being slaughtered by a Southern knight's shadow. In his version there will be other events that the three of us don't remember. Maybe Gundar will say he heard the hellhounds bark at the kennels or that he drank with the restless souls in the brewery's cellar while the Southerners cowered in fear.”

Beric pondered that for a moment. “So you're saying all tales are lies in some way?” he concluded.

Thoros nodded and slightly shrugged. “Most probably are,” he said. “And there's nothing wrong with that. People want to hear about exciting things they could not see first hand. Not every truth makes a good story, so you add some details that make it more thrilling. Every lass is more beautiful, every foe more intimidating and every path is the hardest a man ever walked. Nobody expects all tales to be true, just that they are entertaining. It's an unspoken agreement between audience and narrator.”

For a moment, Beric regarded Thoros appraisingly from the side. “Maybe they should have made you a minstrel instead of a priest,” he then said and stepped back from the banister. “I will consider your advice from now on. Though, I will not practice this art on my father when I tell him about our journey tomorrow.”

Thoros turned to open the door to the guest chambers and smirked. “You're a quick learner, my lord,” he said. “Knowing your audience is...” He broke off and shot Beric an amused glance when he felt a kiss on his cheek.

“If I ever tell people about this evening, I will say I stole a kiss from the most intimidating lass I ever met.” Beric grinned and threw Thoros' cloak at him before ambling down the parapet walk toward his chambers.

 

﴾ _____________________________________________________________________________________ ﴿

 

In the morning the muggy heat had left the Red Mountains. The air felt refreshing and Blackhaven's banners streamed in a light breeze. When Thoros stepped out of the guest chambers onto the parapet walk overlooking the yard he saw a busier than usual bustle down there. From what he could tell people were excited about something, most of all the men with blackened faces, miners perhaps. Thoros wandered to the stairs, watching the yard and wondering what was going on. Blackhaven mined ore and maybe a rich new vein had been discovered. Or a different deposit had turned up, silver or gem stones for the jeweler's workshop.

Beric had mentioned Lord Ossyn had made room for it after his wedding, as Lady Laenah was very fond of designing her own necklaces and brooches. She had been drawing sketches since she was a young girl to entertain herself in the confinement of her fragile health. Silver and gems had been merely a byproduct of the ore mining, not enough to warrant a jeweler's residence in the keep. But Lord Ossyn liked to see his wife happy. He had found a silversmith and a gem cutter and left Lady Laenah free reign. Over the years, she had gained some reputation among the wealthier commoners in the area for her sophisticated yet affordable designs. There were months when silver and topaz had to be imported from Dorne to not have the jewelry makers sit idly around despite the demand. A steadier supply of materials would certainly spark some excitement.

Lady Laenah had proudly presented her workshop and latest designs the day before when she had met Leiff. Ever since, Thoros pondered the idea of bringing a necklace or earrings to King's Landing and talk His Grace into surprising the queen with a gift. Then he remembered that Queen Cersei would probably despise any gift from her husband and let go of the thought. Maybe, he thought when he walked down the last stairs, he'd bring a brooch for Princess Myrcella. Her name day was approaching and her father was unlikely to put any thought in her gifts.

Thoros stopped short when he set foot on the yard. Leiff was standing by the stables and helping Anguy to saddle the horses, yet Beric was nowhere to be seen. Thoros had expected Leiff to be with him and Lord Ossyn, who talked to the maester and a group of miners nearby.

 

“Where is your knight?” Thoros asked when he approached the stables, still looking around.

Leiff shrugged with a clueless expression and kept fastening the straps of the saddle. “I don't know,” he gave back. “He left Blackhaven an hour ago.”

“He told me to take Leiff to the valley when I check on the horse breeders,” Anguy added. “Not that there's much to learn from that, but I guess it helps to know where they are. And I think Beric just wanted to be alone.”

Thoros thoughtfully furrowed his brow. “What makes you think that? Did something happen?”

“I'm not sure,” Leiff reluctantly replied. “He introduced me to his father after he arrived early in the morning. Then Lord Ossyn was called away when the vein was discovered and Lord Beric told me to visit the horse breeders with Anguy. Shortly after that, we saw him leave.”

Anguy took the last saddle from the fence behind him and nodded to the third horse. “I reckon you're going to follow him and find out what upset him so much?”

“You know where he went then,” Thoros concluded.

“He had a hound and a hawk with him,” Anguy gave back. “So he's going to hunt in the marshlands by the Widow's Streams. He always does that when he wants to be alone with his thoughts.”

 

﴾ _____________________________________________________________________________________ ﴿

 

The Widow's Streams lay a two hours ride away down the Northern road. The Cockleswent split up into smaller streams here and the wetlands stretched to the foothills of the Red Mountains. A small forest of willows and birches lined the road to Blackhaven, a treasure trove of herbs, mosses and lichen used in medicine by the maester. The vegetation lost height deeper into the marshlands and near the streams. Tall rushes and cattails swayed in the wind, low shrubs grew on the banks and around rocky outcroppings and the small lakes were dotted with water lilies and reeds. While the land was fertile, it was of no use for growing crops or grazing cattle as even slight rain often flooded the meadows. What the area offered in abundance was small game to hunt, rabbits and otters, geese and ducks.

When Thoros left the road and made his way through the forest things in the distance were hard to make out. Thick fog drifted through the valley and muted the landscape's colors. Not even the rocky foothills retained their sharp edges. The billowing mist seemed to soften them and disguise their treacherous nature.

The forest cleared and only small groups of birch trees obscured the sight across the misty marshland. Anguy had been right, Beric was here. Thoros could see him a short distance away like a surreal painting, the black cloak looked grey and the white horse almost blurred with the fog. A hazy shape moved through shrubs and weeds near what seemed to be a small stream; the hound followed the trace of a duck or maybe a rabbit. Far above Beric the hawk stood almost perfectly still in the air, waiting for the signal to dive down on its prey.

The hazy shape of the hound stopped dead in its tracks, it had found the prey and marked the spot for the hawk to move in. Seconds later the bird shot down from the sky, then there was flapping and cawing and the strident croak of a dying duck.

Thoros dismounted the horse and left it by the last birch trees. Beric certainly heard the sounds behind him, but he did not turn around. He barely paid attention to the hawk carrying the prey over and dropping it on the ground next to him before landing on its master's arm. All he did was whistle to the hound to resume the search for a target. When the hazy shape began moving again, Beric almost lazily threw the hawk back in the air, recreating the scene Thoros had found upon his arrival.

A large iridescent dragonfly welcomed Thoros when he stepped away from the trees. For a moment, it stood in the air right in front of him as if appraising the intruder to its domain before it disappeared somewhere ahead in the fog by the streams.

 

“What are you doing?” Thoros made his presence known in a way Beric couldn't easily ignore.

“What does it look like?” came an annoyed answer. “I'm hunting.”

“It sure looks like that,” Thoros replied, stopping a few steps away from Beric's horse. “And it also strangely resembles 'letting out your frustrations', though I'm a bit stumped what frustrates you.”

Now Beric slowly turned around with an irritated and incredulous expression. He jumped off the horse, listlessly picked up the duck and threw it into a saddle bag. “I tried to tell my father about our travels,” he sharply gave back. “He said he was glad I have seen so much of the realms, without bothering to ask for any details. Then he just left. Because the discovery of yet a new vein is much more interesting and such a thing has never happened before.”

Thoros sighed and went a step closer to Beric. “Your father is a busy man,” he said. “I doubt he meant to be dismissive.”

“Yet he was,” Beric snapped back. “Maybe he agrees with Lord Tyrell. Maybe he thinks the North doesn't matter and I'm wasting my time. It would certainly explain his lack of enthusiasm.”

“Your father isn't the most excitable man I ever met,” Thoros calmly replied. “I'm sure he does care about your adventures. He probably just doesn't want to hear about them in passing and would rather take the time to relax and listen when the day's work is done.”

Beric absently kicked a small rock around in the wet grass and threw a glance to the hound, sniffing for prey in the distance. “That thought occurred to me when I was halfway down the road,” he said after a short silence. “It felt silly to turn around right away, so I followed through with my intention to hunt.” The rock flipped away from a too well-aimed kick, hit a large leafy plant and startled a lizard that quickly sought out new cover. “Still, I was looking forward to that moment and it hurt to have it cut short like that without my father's objection,” Beric added and sighed. “And now he sees me for what I truly am. A stubborn boy who screams and pouts if he isn't given immediate attention.”

Thoros stepped closer and put his hands on Beric's shoulders from behind. “You're not a boy anymore, my lord. You've come a long way since we first met in King's Landing. It doesn't escape a father when his son and heir grows up.”

For a while Beric remained quiet and watched the hound circle a shrub, abandon it and search a new track on the ground. “It doesn't feel that way,” Beric finally said. “I still feel like a lost little boy who dreams of heroes and dragons. It's as if I'm pretending to have grown up because it was expected of me and now I'm hoping and praying nobody can see through my charade.”

“We all do,” Thoros gave back and put his arms around Beric. “That's what growing up truly means, to get better at pretending you know what you're doing. Everyone is pretending. I do. The king does. Your father does. There's Seven Kingdoms full of boys pretending to each other they are men who know exactly how the world works.”

Beric didn't reply right away and for a moment there were only the sounds of the marshes, the rushing of distant streams, calls of birds from the forest, rustling here and there in the shrubs. “Pretending to be a hero would be a lot easier if I had a dragon,” Beric finally said with a sigh. “I can't expect others to put faith in me if I have a hard time believing it myself.” He put a hand, the one without the thick falconer's glove, on Thoros' arm and his gaze got lost far away in the fog.

Thoros rested his chin on Beric's shoulder. “I'll be your dragon,” he quietly said. “And I'll stop calling you fledgling if that makes you...” He broke off when he felt Beric shake his head.

“This is the first and the last time I will admit it,” Beric began and Thoros could tell that he smiled. “I actually like it when you say that. Just not when people can hear it.”

Thoros laughed. “Now that's rather unexpected,” he said. “What changed your mind?”

“All the nicknames I was given were somewhat unkind, some more so than others. Anguy's teasing or the mockery of other knights, those things were said to cast light on the flaws people saw in me”, Beric explained. “It may not be knightly to be called a fledgling, but it's a name coming from affection and I appreciate that.”

“Aye, and nobody says you can't be knightly, soft and cuddly at once,” Thoros gave back. “And in absence of fellow dragons my talents are not wasted if I teach my favorite fledgling to fly.”

Beric slowly turned his head around to shot Thoros a reproachful glare. “I'm not soft,” he noted, ostensibly stern and insistent.

Thoros chuckled about Beric only protesting the softness and leaving the cuddly nature without comment. “Not on the lists, my lord,” he replied. “You're a tough opponent, nobody doubts that. Neither I, nor your father, nor any man you knocked off his horse. I mean you have a gentler heart than most men I ever met. The world is often unkind to those who care about anything more than themselves. And because I care about my fledgling I try to be your armor whenever you need me to be.”

In the distance the hound had stopped in front of a patch of large cattails and Beric gave the waiting hawk the signal to dive down. “My dragon, my armor, my everything,” he said, smiling, and put his hand back on Thoros' arm. “The best friend I could ever ask for. Though it's still a mystery to me why you don't grow tired of a young lord's silly dreams.”

The cattails moved wildly, then the hawk emerged with a struggling rabbit in its claws. “Because they aren't silly, my lord,” Thoros replied as his gaze followed the hawk and its prey up in the air. “The world would be a better place if more men were dreamers like you.” Beric didn't answer, but Thoros could feel the grip on his arm tighten. “And because you rekindled a fire that I thought I lost in the bottle,” Thoros quietly added. “A new thirst for adventures that the wine can't quench anymore.”

By the cattails the hawk emerged as the victor, but Beric barely paid any attention. He wound himself out of the hug and turned around with a bright smile. “Then I shouldn't leave you thirsty,” he said. “I was thinking about taking Ser Eldrion up on his offer. Anguy always wanted to test his skill against the famed Ironborn archers and I think he regrets not joining us at the Nightfort and seeing the Wall.”

“I was hoping you'd say that ever since Ser Eldrion mentioned it. And maybe...” Thoros jumped back when the hawk rapidly approached to land on Beric's arm. “...the journey will jog my memory and I'll finally remember if I really stormed the gates of Pyke.”

 

﴾ _____________________________________________________________________________________ ﴿

 

“Thoros, I'm glad I found you.”

The rookery was dimly lit in the evening and Lord Ossyn's black surcoat almost merged with the shadows and the dark wooden door. Beric was returning the hawk to its cage further back in the tower and did his best to pretend he wasn't anxious to tell his father about his travels.

“Lord Ossyn. A pleasure to see you.”

Thoros nudged the owl on his arm to make it step back on its perch, but the bird was stubborn and so Thoros forfeited with a polite bow.

“Please excuse my preoccupation after my return,” Lord Ossyn continued. “I meant to invite you to talk over wine in the solar. If you have no other engagements tonight...?”

The hawk sat in its cage by now, but Beric didn't turn around. He fumbled on the clasps of the cage door, giving his father time and opportunity to extend the invitation.

Thoros still hadn't freed his arm from the owl, but he nodded to Lord Ossyn. “Of course, I...” He sighed and turned to Beric when the owl just glared at him and didn't move to its perch. Lord Ossyn chuckled and now Beric glanced over his shoulder. His face spoke volumes; a tale of annoyance and disappointment, but he came over, grabbed the owl and the claws finally let go of Thoros' sleeve.

“Beric, could you bring us a good wine from the cellar?” Lord Ossyn watched Beric set the owl down on the backrest of the chair. “I'm sure you know Thoros' taste best.”

Slowly Beric turned around. His gaze grazed Thoros, a wordless accusation. 'Now you're even stealing my father's attention' was written in his eyes. “Of course, father,” his lips said instead as Beric nodded and tried hard to retain his composure, but his discontent showed when he quickly stormed out.

 

“Can I ask a favor?” Lord Ossyn asked when he opened the door to the solar and waited for Thoros to enter the room.

Thoros shrugged and nodded. “If I can be of assistance, of course.”

Lord Ossyn left the door open and glanced to the hallway before quietly making his request. “The Dusk Rose tea... Would you be able to procure more of it for me? A larger quantity?”

Thoros sat down on one of the chairs by the small oval table. “The anniversary is coming up again, isn't it?” he replied, though he had a different thought on his mind.

Lord Ossyn nodded almost too quickly. “It does indeed,” he gave back, seemingly glad to be given an excuse for his inquiry.

“I will send a raven to the Red Keep first thing in the morning,” Thoros said. “I should...” He broke off when he heard steps coming closer outside. Lord Ossyn went over to the table and sat down. “...inform the king that I will be away for a while longer,” Thoros changed the subject when Beric entered the solar with a bottle of red wine. “Though it bears the risk of making His Grace green with envy when he hears I'll visit the Iron Islands.”

Beric slammed the bottle on the table and turned to leave, now making no effort to hide his resentment anymore. He had almost reached the door when Lord Ossyn chuckled and exchanged a quick glance with Thoros. “Beric!” he then sternly said. “Where do you think you are going?” Beric stopped in the door, but he didn't turn around. “If my son goes to see the world, he owes me the stories. I'm almost bursting with curiosity! Now sit down, have some wine and tell me all about your adventures.”

Thoros smirked and reached for the wine to fill the three glasses waiting on the table. Beric took a deep breath, then he turned around with a relieved smile and came over to sit down for a long night of stories.

 


	16. Call Of The Kraken

Maester Ervyn was a tall man with a haggard face, a large pointy nose and an untamed fringe of dirty blond hair. He was younger than Beric had pictured him from Maester Jeon's stories. The man was maybe in his late forties, certainly young enough to be Jeon's son. Beric had heard quite a bit about the time Blackhaven's maester had spent in the Citadel as a colleague of Maester Ervyn. He had always assumed the two men were about the same age, for no other reason than thinking of all maesters as wise and ancient creatures who had never been anything but scholars for all their lives. While Maester Ervyn showed them around in the Citadel, Oldtown's famous heart of wisdom and study, Beric remembered that Maester Jeon had only forged the first link to his chain later in life.

They saw the Scribe's Hearth right by the gates and despite the heavy summer rain the yard was bustling with customers looking to have letters written, documents transcribed or newly acquired books appraised by the acolytes. Leiff was excited to see a weirwood this far in the South when Maester Ervyn showed them the Ravenry, the Citadel's oldest building, almost as overgrown with vines and moss as the walls of the Nightfort. There were libraries with more books than a man could read in his lifetime, old leather-bound tomes stacked from the floor to the ceiling, some locked away behind iron bars, others halfheartedly piled up under tables and benches. It was not necessary to read any of them though, not with Maester Ervyn around. From the moment he had welcomed the visitors he had been cheerfully chatting and commenting on every room, every person and every shelf they passed by.

Anguy had excused himself halfway through the tour, claiming his head would explode if he was exposed to any more information. The truth was probably not too far from it, though he was also keen to inspect some of the stores lining the square outside the Citadel. Spending money, or at least pondering his options to do so, held much more interest than dusty tomes.

Thoros seemed only mildly interested in Maester Ervyn's enthusiastic narration, but he declined Anguy's invitation to leave with him and browse the stores. Beric suspected Thoros stayed to keep him company more than to learn how maesters studied and he was grateful for that. Maester Ervyn spoke without any pauses. At times it seemed as if he even had transcended the need to breathe between subjects. There was the collection of organs and limbs preserved in jars full of alcohol that Maester Jeon had spoken of, the sketches of the known Valyrian steel swords and the histories of the houses passing these ancestral weapons down from father to son. There were certainly subjects Beric found interesting, though it wasn't hard to see he could have done without so much detail.

 

﴾ _____________________________________________________________________________________ ﴿

 

Now the group was back outside, on the street across from the large sphinxes guarding the Citadel's gate, seeking shelter from the rain under a store's awning. Anguy had bought an incredibly gaudy wood carving of the watchtower of House Hightower that only vaguely resembled Oldtown's famous landmark. Beric and Thoros felt exhausted, though they hadn't done anything other than listen to Maester Ervyn for hours. Leiff, on the other hand, looked satisfied. He had purchased a map of the city from one of the stalls of the Scribe's Hearth and watched it with eagle's eyes while Thoros tried to look up where they would need to go.

“If it gets wet and becomes unreadable, you're going to buy me a new one!” he warned. Thoros absently nodded and leaned closer against the wall of the store, trying to shelter the map from the rain.

“Once you're a student you won't need a map of the city,” Anguy gave back. “You'll be old and grey when they let you out again. And you'll be sent to a castle somewhere, not shuffling around in the streets of Oldtown.”

“You don't have intentions of becoming a maester, do you?” Beric regarded Leiff skeptically, then his gaze wandered from the walls of the Citadel across the street, up to the towers against the cloudy, dark sky . “You said you needed information for your brother.”

Leiff laughed and nodded. “It _is_ for my brother,” he said, seeing the concerned look on his knight's face. “He'll need a map to find the way when he gets here. He is not used to big cities like this.” He thought for a moment. “Though, maybe I will have to drag him here myself. In that case, no map will be needed.”

Beric raised an eyebrow. “Your plan is forcing your brother to become a maester?” he concluded.

Again, Leiff nodded. “I'm sure he'll see reason once I tell him about it,” he replied. “But Benjen is stubborn. He might need some convincing. When father fell ill some of the young men of Frostspear Hall went to the Wall. They said that's where Northern boys go if there's no better place for them. Benjen got it in his head that he'll go as well once he turns sixteen, 'to not be a burden'.” He sighed and rolled his eyes. “I told him it's a foolish idea and I still think it is. Benjen always loved books more than bows and swords, just like Maester Jeon preferred medicine to ships. If my brother wants to leave Frostspear Hall so badly, I reckon the Citadel is a better fit than the Wall.”

Beric exchanged a surprised glance with Anguy. “Maester Jeon dislikes ships? He never told me.”

“Just making them. He told me how he left the North and the family's business for a new life at the Citadel.” Leiff stepped closer to Thoros when a gust of wind whipped the rain under the awning and folded the map in the middle.

“He told you about his life before he became a maester?” Beric pulled his cloak tighter together. “Maesters are supposed to leave their old life behind.”

Leiff shrugged, still keeping an eye on his map and Thoros' attempts to unfold it. “He did not tell me who he was, but I know. He mentioned ships and how he left the business to his brother. There's a shipwright that fits this tale in White Harbor. Lord Manderly told the boys working on a tourney last year that there would be work and many of us went there for a few weeks. I believe the man who hired us is Maester Jeon's nephew. I mentioned a few things about working there and he seemed pleased to hear the business went well.”

Another gust of wind and rain swept under the awning and Anguy sighed with annoyance. “Can we just find an inn or a tavern already? It's going to be dark soon and I'm wet and hungry.”

 

﴾ _____________________________________________________________________________________ ﴿

 

The inn sat on the banks of the Honeywine, near a group of small stone bridges that connected isles of the river to the city on both sides. A fire flickering in a hearth, good food and wine and a cozy table under a window did wonders for the mood. The rain had grown heavier since night had fallen, but with a crackling fire nearby and cloaks and coats dried, the constant drumming only added to the atmosphere instead of being a bother. Without the wind's disturbance, Thoros had found the spot where they'd be expected the next day on Leiff's map.

“Are you sure that is where your guide will meet us?” Anguy leaned over the table to see the map better. “That's far from the harbor and this looks like the wall of the city.” He pointed at a thick line on the map, then pulled the paper closer. “That _is_ the wall,” he noted after studying it for a moment. “Is our ship supposed to dock outside the city?”

Beric reached in his pocket to find the scroll Ser Eldrion had sent, detailing the location and time of their appointment. “I recall Ser Eldrion mentioned it was a small dock,” Thoros said while Beric read the scroll. “It's mainly used for ships that carry cargo not meant for the market. Building materials, private shipments from the Summer Isles and Lys. And apparently it is much closer to the warehouses of the merchant who let us book passage. There don't seem to be many ships going to the Iron Islands, so we shouldn't complain.”

Beric nodded and dropped the scroll on the table in front of Anguy. “It says 'cargo dock' and 'near the city wall'. And if it is such a small dock, I doubt we'll have trouble finding a large ship there.”

Anguy picked up the scroll, pretended to read it and dropped it back on the table. “What cargo does our ship carry anyway?” he asked. “I hope it's not loaded with cattle or goats.”

“How would I know?” Beric shrugged and put the scroll back in his pocket. “But since the captain sails for House Redwyne...” He paused when both Thoros and Anguy looked at him with a hopeful grin. “It might be wine.” Beric sighed. “ _Might_ be,” he repeated insistently. “And if it is wine, it doesn't mean you can drink it.”

Leiff got up and collected the empty cups from the table. “I'll get us wine we can drink then,” he said.

“Ale,” Beric corrected him. “We've had enough wine for tonight.” Leiff shrugged and left, Anguy rolled his eyes and leaned back on the bench.

“Some things never change, I guess.” He regarded Beric appraisingly. “I hope you won't end up bored on the Iron Islands. The only entertainment the Ironborn know is drinking, gambling and whoring; all much too sinful for your taste.”

“You only know stories. You've never been there,” Beric retorted. “And I believe you forgot 'fighting', which I happen to find entertaining and prefer to do with a clear head.”

“My aim gets better the more wine I drink,” Anguy gave back with a satisfied smirk. “But I won't complain if you abstain and leave all the wine to me.” He got up to let Leiff sit down again by the window and helped him distribute the mugs of ale and wine.

“You can forget about _all_ the wine.” Thoros grinned and toasted to Anguy. “I've been to Pyke. It takes quite a few drinks until the place looks less bleak.”

Anguy laughed and returned the toast. “I'd be honored to drink the Iron Islands dry with the legend of Pyke!” He drank, then toasted to Beric. “And I'm really glad you finally set out for real adventures and are taking me along.” Anguy sounded more serious than usual and Beric shot him a skeptical glance before drinking from his ale. “You know, I didn't mean to belittle your victories in the Stormlands,” Anguy continued. “I think now that we're far from home, I can tell you why I kept joking about you not leaving the nest.” Beric just nodded undecidedly and Anguy kept talking. “Your knight, Ser Garvan. I know you always admired him and there was no other choice in your mind for who to squire. He trained your father and half the guards of Blackhaven, fought side by side with Ser Barristan and holds victories against every knight of note in the realm.” He cleared his throat and drank from his wine. “But he was also already a very old man when you became his page. He rarely traveled outside the Stormlands and his old injury from the rebellion often tied him down for months at a time. When you were knighted, I thought we'd finally become like the heroes from the tales Ser Garvan told us. That we'd go see the world and find adventures. But you still wouldn't go looking for them.” He paused and poured down the wine. “And I would have hated seeing you become Ser Garvan. An old man who stays at home to tell stories to the children instead of living them.”

“I didn't sit at home without doing anything,” Beric gave back and thoughtfully turned the mug in his hand. “And there were other knights I considered. Ser Garvan was the only one who had achieved what I planned on doing once I was knighted though.” He drank a sip from his ale. “You can't deny that he was a good teacher and prepared me well for my goal. But I understand why you think it was a dull thing to do.”

“You do?” Anguy looked surprised, even more so when Beric nodded.

“I didn't appreciate the freedom I have.” Beric drank the rest of his ale and put the mug back on the table. “Don't take this the wrong way, but your pestering had little to do with my choice to see more of the world. It...”

Anguy grinned and glanced to Thoros. “That's fine. You paid the dowry. Now I can still take credit even if it was his doing.”

Thoros quietly smirked and poured down his wine, Beric let out a brief incredulous laughter. “Frankly, it wasn't his doing alone either. Ser Loras told me about his boredom, being tied down by his family's expectations and wishing he had the freedom to travel wherever he wants. But if you try hard enough, you probably find a way to frame it as your achievement somehow.” He slowly pushed the empty mug to Leiff. “I guess we can drink one more wine before we retire.”

Leiff nodded and got up, Anguy leaned back and furrowed his brow in thought. “Now that you mention it, I recall drinking with Ser Loras on a few occasions. And I'm sure I told him about my worries and your stubborn quest. He probably remembered that when you met him in Highgarden.”

 

﴾ _____________________________________________________________________________________ ﴿

 

There had been a storm raging all night, thunder and lightning and the wind had rattled the shutters of the inn's window in a steady rhythm. Only a fine drizzle was left of the last day's heavy rain in the morning and the storm had calmed down to a mild breeze. The cobblestone streets of Oldtown were slippery when the group made their way to the dock outside the city walls. Only few people passed by, with hoods drawn deep down into their faces and their cloaks pulled tightly together to ward off the rain. At one point, they saw three of the shady figures unload a wagon after looking over their shoulders like thieves fearing to be caught in the act. It was hard to make out from the distance what they took off their wagon, but its shape and the way two of the men carried it made it look like a dead body, wrapped in blankets and rags. The third man whispered to them after noticing Beric's party and the three of them hurried to disappear behind a cellar door and left the empty wagon behind.

When they came closer, Beric saw a sign on the building's door. It was a tavern called Sailor's Delight, but it didn't look welcoming to guests, sailors or otherwise. The small windows next to the door were boarded up with moldy wood planks and the sign was so small, it couldn't possibly attract any patrons. Anguy suspected this was the entrance to one of Oldtown's infamous black brothels or a path leading to the undercity and its seedy establishments that the city did not advertise.

Nobody said it, but everyone felt relief wash over them when they walked down the narrow stairs to the docks and spotted the only ship anchored there. The rain had finally subsided when they arrived. Now the the sun broke through the clouds and glistened brightly in the puddles down the road. Despite the unspoken concerns of the last night, the ship didn't look as rundown and shady as the area suggested. On the contrary, the Golden Harvest looked inviting with its deep maroon sails and golden embellishments and the azure blue flag of House Redwyne streaming in the wind. Across from the dock, Beric saw the two guards he had sent here after arriving in Oldtown to handle the baggage and take care of the horse. They were casually talking to a sailor who wore the same blue clothes as those on the ship.

“If that ship is full of wine, we'll live like kings on the way.” Anguy stopped on the road to look up to the dark red sails.

“It is not,” a voice from nearby answered. “But I can assure you we will not die of thirst on the way, my friend.”

The man that voice belonged to sat on a short wall by the pier, protected from the earlier drizzle by a makeshift awning of crates and planks. His age was hard to tell, as his face was rugged like the coastline of Shipbreaker Bay, even more so when he furtively regarded the new arrivals and furrowed his brow. Strands of wet dark brown hair clung to his forehead and cheeks, half obscuring eyes as black as the ocean at night; a soft kind of darkness as if the sea was covered in fog. “I'm so glad you came,” he said almost sweetly, showing a gap between his crooked teeth when he smiled at Beric. “It is so rare I have company on my travels. A true delight to be in your presence, my lord.” He spoke in a most peculiar way that made it hard to tell if it was an unfamiliar accent or a mocking tone. Anguy shot Beric a doubtful glance, then looked back to what appeared to be their host and guide, to study the strange clothes the man wore.

“May I introduce our guide?” Beric turned to Anguy. “Nereon of the Lonely Light. He's...”

“It's Nereon Krakensong,” Nereon corrected. “A minstrel should have a more poetic name, wouldn't you agree?”

Beric nodded undecidedly and was about to reply, but Anguy was faster. “Kraken can't sing,” he noted matter-of-factly.

“And neither can I.” Nereon exposed his crooked teeth in a weird smile once more. “But it's not the the voice that truly matters, it's the heart of a song.” His foggy black eyes jumped back to Beric. “I have been away from the sea for too long. Maybe traveling in such exalted company will bring new inspiration. One does not see a Southern knight on the Iron Islands too often. There may be a poem or ballad found in such an odd instance.”

“I would be honored if the journey inspires you,” Beric replied. He was polite, but he clearly shared Anguy's disconcertment with the man's appearance. “It seems to be a rare chance for a knight to compete on the Iron Islands. If I hadn't met Ser Eldrion, I would never have known about Lord Marsh's annual tourney.”

“Wouldn't call it a 'tourney', son.”

Nereon jumped off the wall and he was surprisingly swift on his feet despite the heavy wool cloak he wore. It was the color of seaweed, even more ragged and battered than Thoros' cloak, and it seemed almost impossible that it was dry. Except for the peculiar brooch holding the rags on his shoulders, Nereon's clothes looked like they were put together from what a group of hedge knights had dismissed. His surcoat was dark green and black and possessed the same bizarre, almost unnatural quality as the old cloak; it glistened as if it was soaked wet and crusted with the dried salt of sea water at the same time.

“Ser Eldrion called it a 'tourney',” Beric replied, sounding puzzled. “Am I misinformed?” He instinctively took a step back when Nereon came closer, moving oddly on the slippery planks of the pier, as if he was shaken by waves or not certain his feet touched firm ground.

“There'll be fighting, if that's what you're worried about,” Nereon gave back and wandered around the crates to the pier. “And there'll be men in armor and some might ride on horses. And Lord Marsh gives some coins to the last man in the saddle.” He stopped and waited for the group to follow him. “But it won't be what you're used to from the fancy castles in the Reach. It's not a celebration of chivalry and knighthood. This event is a mockery of such noble things.”

“If that lord dislikes chivalry, why does he host a tourney to mock it?” Thoros asked as they followed Nereon down the pier. “It seems easy to ignore traditions of the Seven on an island this far away. Why does he invite what he can't he stand to his castle?”

“Oh, it's not a dislike of all knights,” Nereon gave back over his shoulder. “I would not even call it 'dislike'. You see, Lord Kaedmon Marsh used to have an older brother, Ser Vernon Marsh, who was, as you may have guessed by that name, a knight. He renounced the Drowned God and the way of life the Ironborn follow, yet he was the firstborn son of House Marsh.” He ambled onto the gangway, unconcerned by the slipperiness of the planks. “His siblings did not like that at all, fearing he'd demand they'd follow his example once he inherited the title and lands. Strange how it never came to that...” Nereon sounded both pensive and amused about his tale.

“What happened to him?” Beric asked, though he didn't seem too sure he wanted to know about the knight's fate.

“Broke his neck in a joust during his own tourney.” Nereon jumped on deck, turned around in one swift move and smirked. “That is what Lord Kaedmon Marsh celebrates. His brother's hubris and his timely demise. Every year on the same day, he hosts a tourney that serves as reminder of Ser Vernon's death. It's the seventeenth anniversary this year and I've never missed this event. It's always a great spectacle with the best music, the best women and the best wine.”

 

﴾ _____________________________________________________________________________________ ﴿

 

Captain Burgess was a jovial man who strongly resembled a walrus in both stature and the way he styled his bushy facial hair. He gladly showed the passengers around the Golden Harvest and answered questions about his previous travels. Over twenty years in the service of House Redwyne had led him to distant places, from Pentos, Tyrosh, Myr and Lys to the Summer Islands in the South-East. For the past seven years, he sailed the Sunset Sea and delivered wine to the ports of the Reach, the Westerlands and the Riverlands and every once in a while to the Iron Islands. The route would take them to the Shield Islands, along the shores of the Westerlands to Faircastle, to their destination on Blacktyde, after which the Golden Harvest would make its final delivery in Seagard. The captain meticulously listed which port expected what part of their cargo; the exact amount of barrels and what they contained. Federweisser for House Farman of the Fair Isle, Arbor Gold for House Hewett of Oakenshield Castle and equal amounts of sweet and dry red wine to House Mallister at Seagard. The only time the captain's jolly demeanor took a gloomy and serious turn was after Anguy had asked what would be delivered to Blackbridge, the seat of House Marsh. “There'll be wine, don't you worry about that,” Captain Burgess had barked and his tone left no doubt that he would not answer further questions regarding the subject.

The tour led the group to the common room, empty at this early hour, and to the galley, where the captain introduced a tiny Tyroshi as the ship's cook. The man was skinny and ancient, his dark olive skin wrinkled like an old tree. The captain made grandiose claims about his ability, saying the cook's gaunt stature was in no way indicative of the taste of his food. The way then led them to the cargo bay deep inside the ship's belly, filled with crates and barrels of wine. One corner had been turned into accommodations for Beric's horse with straw and buckets of fresh water and a hammock for a guard dangling between two wooden columns.

Finally, they reached the cabins near the captain's private chambers and Beric was relieved to see there were two real beds. Everywhere else, even in Captain Burgess' cabin, hammocks had taken their place. There were only two cabins for passengers with two beds each and therefore the crew had improvised to accommodate a group of four. The hammocks looked out of place in the otherwise somewhat tastefully furnished cabin, but Anguy and Leiff had no complaints.

There was a long cushioned bench, half covered by one of the hammocks, that took up the wall next to the cabin's door and one corner. A small table held a tray with wine cups and a cyvasse board with artfully carved pieces. Further back in the opposite corner, the second hammock hung almost under the ceiling above a heavy wooden chest, two more of those stood in front of the beds. A small nook, separated from the cabin with a long curtain, had a sideboard with a polished basin and a round mirror. Except for the absence of windows the cabin looked like one of the better rooms of an inn.

The second cabin, the captain said, was occupied by a merchant and his wife from the Shield Island who returned home after a visit to relatives. Before anyone could inquire where the minstrel would stay on their journey, Nereon explained that he had a private place where he would not be disturbed at night. Should Beric look for him, he'd only need to ask Captain Burgess, who would then inform Nereon of any requests.

“Why don't you like hammocks, my lord?” Leiff pushed the wall with his leg to make his hammock rock back and forth when Captain Burgess and Nereon had left the cabin. “This is more comfortable than it looks.”

“I like hammocks just fine,” Beric gave back and sat down on his bed under a swanky painting of the Arbor on the outer wall. “I don't trust them when he is nearby.” He shot a furtive glance to Anguy who swung in his hammock above the bench and grinned to himself.

“I haven't seen any fishing nets on our tour of the ship.” Anguy smirked and watched Thoros inspect a cyvasse board on the small table. “And it has been years. It's time you let go and stop being so wary.”

Thoros sat down on the bench and absently picked up one of the pieces, but he looked over to Beric, waiting for an explanation.

“Some years ago Ser Garvan took me to Greenstone to attend Lord Estermont's tourney. It was the first time I traveled by ship and I wanted to know what it was like to sleep like a sailor,” Beric said, still glaring at Anguy. “He wrapped a fishing net around me and the hammock at night and he was much too amused by my attempts to escape in the morning.”

“I only wanted to make sure you wouldn't fall out,” Anguy innocently replied.

Leiff held back his chuckles, Thoros did not. “That was very thoughtful of you,” he said, looking to Anguy, and put the piece he held back on the board.

“See? That's what I thought!” Anguy triumphantly smiled at Beric. “But you just had to overreact and sleep with your sword in hand the next two nights at sea.”

Beric grumbled and crossed his arms. “I made my knight wait because of you. And the sea was very calm. There was no need to tie me to the hammock.”

“The sea is unpredictable, Maester Jeon always told us so,” Anguy importantly declared. “It may look calm for weeks and then unleash its rage all of a sudden. And Shipbreaker Bay is known for its harsh conditions.”

“Greenstone lies in Cape Wrath, does it not?” Thoros asked and reached for another piece, this time a black one.

“Aye, he's already making up excuses for doing the same when we went to Evenfall Hall after I was knighted.” Beric got up from the bed and went to the door, then he stopped and turned around to glare at Anguy. “And if I wake up under a fishing net on this journey, I'll leave you stranded on Blacktyde.”

 

﴾ _____________________________________________________________________________________ ﴿

 

Thoros leaned on the ship's rail next to Beric as he watched the tower of Oldtown get smaller and smaller in the distance. The last dark clouds were gone now, the sky was sunny and blue out over the water and a good wind filled the sails of the Golden Harvest.

“What are you smirking at?” Thoros asked when he noticed the mischievous look on Beric's face. “Are you that happy to leave Oldtown or is there something more to your high spirits?”

“Not to dismiss the beauty of Oldtown,” Beric absently replied. “But I liked being at sea, except for Anguy's pranks. I wished the journey to Estermont or Tarth had taken longer. It's only two or three days from the coast to those ports. There's something calming and peaceful about the silence and the vastness of the ocean and I always thought it would be nice to have more time to take it in.”

“I haven't been on a ship in a long time,” Thoros gave back. “I barely remember the way from Myr to King's Landing and I recall even less about the journey to Pyke. I've been to Dragonstone once or twice and to the Three Sisters, but that barely counts and I was drunk the whole time. Maybe this time I'll follow your example and try to stay sober at least some part of the way.” He looked around on deck, but only saw sailors going about their work. “Where is Leiff? He didn't change his mind and swim back to the harbor to become a maester, I hope?”

Beric slowly turned to Thoros with a satisfied smile. “No, he did not. I sent him to find me a fishing net.”

 


	17. West of Westeros

♫ _On the last day I took her where the lilies float on the waves_  
_And she lay on the shore, the sea breeze light as a thief_  
_There I kissed her goodbye, said 'All beauty must die'_  
_And I held her under water until I felt she ceased to breathe_

 _They called her The Rose of the Trident_  
_But her name was Rosella Frey_  
_Why they called her it I do not know_  
_And she never again saw the light of day_ ♪

 

Beric, leaning on the ship's rail, rolled his eyes and went back to stare down the horizon. The sea wind was favorable and had been since the Golden Harvest had left the dock of Oldtown. A clear sky stretched across the endless shimmering water of the Sunset Sea, puffy white clouds drifted over the shoreline and the salty breeze brought refreshment on warm, sunny days. The sailors working on deck were in high spirits. The afternoon slowly turned into evening and they were taking down the maroon sails to anchor the ship for the night. Even the sea birds claiming the small island to starboard seemed to enjoy the seaside idyll. The sole and quite persistent source of gloom was Nereon Krakensong.

A few days ago, it hadn't particularly bothered Beric that the minstrel took his promise to provide entertainment on their journey very seriously. Nereon had demonstrated a variety of instruments to the ship's crew and rarely spent any time under deck. Beric had only endured it for a few hours and from a good distance, when he went to fish from the rear deck with Anguy and Leiff. The merchant couple had turned out to be rather social and invited Beric to their cabin on the evening of the second day to chat and drink wine. From then on, he and Thoros had often visited them, talked about their travels and their business and learned to play cyvasse from the merchant's wife, who was an avid player. Not even the screeching noise of the walrus tusk flute Beric remembered from Highgarden had been irritating and loud enough to reach the cabin.

 

Now the merchant couple had returned to the Shield Islands and the Golden Harvest continued on its route down the coast. No new passengers had boarded the ship and so Beric was left with less elegant entertainment. The crew of the ship preferred card and dice games when the ship anchored for the night. They were loud, sang indecent songs, they gambled and drank a strong ale Beric thought tasted putrid. But their company in the crowded common room was still better than sitting bored in the cabin. Anguy had tried to learn the rules of cyvasse out of politeness, but Beric had soon given up on trying to teach. It was obvious Anguy was of the same mind as the sailors and enjoyed their games, songs and swill. Thoros did Beric the favor of playing on occasion, though both of them grew tired of the slow-paced game without the added diversion of the merchants' tales.

The common room offered an abundance of stories, yet of a very different kind than those the couple from the Shield Islands told. Anguy and Leiff had listened to Nereon every evening and found him quite entertaining. And at first, Beric agreed. Nereon had been painfully honest about the qualities of his singing voice, but as long as he recited poems or told stories he easily captivated his audience. Even seasoned sailors, who had traveled far and wide, hung on his words when Nereon spun his yarn. Once Thoros had secured a sweet wine to drink instead of the dreadful ale, Beric warmed up to the common room as well.

What Beric didn't get used to was Nereon's persistence in practicing his musical skills during the day, 'to find inspiration at sea', as he claimed. While his flute produced irritating and unpleasant noises reminiscent of the calling of sea birds, it at least ensured he couldn't sing. The same couldn't be said for the odd instrument he had settled on in the early afternoon, four days after leaving the harbor of Lord Hewett's Town on Oakenshield. It vaguely resembled a lute in shape and size, but the body was made from a large turtle shell. It had strings and a variety of seashells and dried anemones and starfish stuck between them. There was no telling what exactly gave the instrument its bizarre sound. The delicate and simultaneously sonorous and vibrant tones lingered as if even the wind refused to carry them. Sometimes, seemingly at random intervals, a barely audible susurration echoed after pulls of certain strings.

Unlike the flute, which was merely annoying, this instrument made Beric uneasy. Every melody seemed to carry a peculiar sadness and melancholy he suspected would not have been there if it had been a common lute or lyre. As long as Nereon did not sing, the distorted sounds filled Beric with a strange longing he could not quite explain. The odd tune made him yearn for islands and shores he had never seen, as if distant seas called him with growing tenacity, reminding him of the futility of any efforts to stay away for too long. Beric didn't like the strange feeling of having another man's memories, though he found it spoke to the skill of the minstrel that he could evoke them through his songs.

However, Beric didn't like the alternative any better. Nereon's voice lessened the tristesse of his songs, only to replace it with ghastly, macabre tales. Almost all of them ended in insanity or death and those that did not were unfinished or just stopped making sense halfway through. There may have been a certain poetry to the words, but it got lost in the raspy growling Nereon called 'singing'.

 

The only solace Beric had was the minstrel's curious punctuality. Every evening with sunset, after the Golden Harvest had anchored, Nereon abandoned his stage on the main deck and went inside to the common room. He would entertain the crew with his poems and stories, never for more than two or three hours. Most of the sailors were drunk or distracted with wagers on games of chance by then and barely noticed Nereon's strangely quiet disappearance, after which he was not seen anymore until morning. Beric did notice, as he remained fairly sober and did not gamble, but he did not inquire about this behavior. When he saw Nereon get up from his chair and walk toward the stairs without ostentation, Beric pretended to not pay attention. From the corner of his eye, he did watch Nereon leave, if only to be certain there wouldn't be any more harrowing poems of madness and death that night. He also couldn't resist observing Nereon's strange way of moving, subtle enough to escape the attention of drunken sailors. It seemed he was swaying, as if he was one with the tides even when the sea was calm and windless outside. Once he had disappeared through the hatch, Beric breathed out in relief, looking forward to an hour or two without ghastly poems of sailors succumbing to madness.

 

The sailors had finished their work for the day and one by one descended down the narrow stairs to the common room. It wouldn't take long until Nereon followed them and ceased singing his macabre songs while they were eating. Beric waited, outwardly patient, in hopes to have a moment alone with the last beams of the evening sun. Nereon's constant presence on deck made it difficult to fully enjoy the warm days at sea and the breathtaking sunsets before a cold night would come. The Tyroshi cook was as talented as Captain Burgess had claimed and there was no shortage of food on the ship. Beric knew he wouldn't go hungry if he was a bit late and so he pretended to be lost in thought at the rail, waiting for the minstrel to leave.

As if to mock Beric's struggle to retain his polite patience, Nereon skipped and tripped around on the main deck instead of going inside. He tuned his strange instrument, pulled a few strings and slowly ascended the stairs to the quarterdeck. Beric watched him furtively from the corner of his eye without turning around. Something about Nereon's tread still caused bewilderment in him, though he couldn't quite say what exactly it was. There was an odd stagger to it that almost made it seem as if Nereon was surrounded by water, his step much too light for a man of his size. His only anchor to steady ground was the strange glimmering cloak he wore at all times. It still looked heavy and soggy even in sunlight and yet it dragged behind Nereon without leaving a wet trail on the planks. It didn't stream in the light breeze either when Nereon arrived on the quarterdeck, almost as if it was part of his body.

Beric sighed to himself. Nereon would not go to the common room without presenting a song from his chosen stage. Leaving now would probably be seen as insulting and he wished he had forfeited the sunbeams and taken his chance to escape. Maybe it would at least not be a too gloomy song, Beric thought, just to have such hopes swept away by the first chords of the lute.

 

♫ _I dream of the ocean, through the night the ghosts are sailing still_  
_The ship steering west and farther west though the wild Sunset Sea swell_  
_The men lie soaked and cold beneath the sail with mad dreams in their heads_ ♪

Enough was enough. Beric swirled around and glared up to the quarterdeck, making no secret of his irritation anymore. Nereon acknowledged the daring posture and annoyed expression with a brief smile that felt more like a challenge than appreciation for his solitary audience downstairs. For a moment their eyes met and the clouded black gaze sent a cold shiver up and down Beric's spine. But he did not change his defiant stance, just like Nereon did not cease to sing, undeterred.

♪ _They held their breath and prayed to the Drowned God in the hour of death_  
_Dreaming and drowning and writhing under the ink black night sky_  
_Awaiting the tides to carry them home for what is dead may never die_ ♫ _  
_

 

“Do you really not know a single song that isn't about people losing their minds or dying horrifically?” Beric interrupted, loud enough to drown out the bizarre noises.

Surprised, Nereon lowered the instrument and regarded Beric appraisingly for a long moment. “The Ballad of Sweet Neryse Holding,” he finally said.

Beric hung his head and shot a resigned glance to Nereon. “I meant a more cheerful song, not one about a woman realizing her husband loves the sea more than her.”

Nereon considered that for a while and sashayed back to the stairs. “Neither of them dies,” he noted.

“That may be so,” Beric admitted and leaned back against the rail. “But the man falls into an oblivious state. He stares at the sea all day long with dead, empty eyes, doesn't speak to anyone and barely moves. His wife considers drowning herself to win his heart back and fails. It's not cheerful. On the contrary, it is quite depressing.”

“The Arbor Rose,” Nereon suggested. He descended the stairs, slowly, as if he was plunging into dark and dangerous waters. “It is a poem about a flower.”

Beric nodded and eyed the hatch to the common room. “And it ends with the rose being swept into the ocean. After it withered on a desolate island. I still find this rather dreary.”

Nereon swayed closer like an overly visible thief in the night. He moved toward the hatch, but then stopped a few steps away from Beric. “I never thought about it that way.” He sounded genuinely intrigued, as if he had just heard a curious rumor. “In all those years, nobody in the Reach ever seemed displeased with my poetry.”

“I frankly don't know much about poetry,” Beric gave back, less annoyed now and relieved Nereon didn't take offense at the complaint. “Maybe I just can't truly appreciate your talent.”

Nereon decidedly shook his head, but the water drops Beric expected to spray from the stringy dark hair were absent. “No, no. You might just be right. Maybe my songs have become dull and are too dreary. Maybe I did lack inspiration in recent years.” His glance went right through Beric into the distance, to the Western horizon and the radiant sunset sky. “I've been in the South for so long.” Nereon sighed wistfully and absently reached for the brooch holding his cloak with his free hand.

Beric's eyes followed the motion, covertly trying to study the peculiar jewelry once more. He had made several attempts to understand what the brooch represented since the ship had left Oldtown. So far, his only insight was that it didn't show the sigil of House Thorncliffe, as he had first thought. Ser Eldrion, knighted almost thirty years ago by the Tyrells, had paid tribute to his benefactors. True to his ironborn heritage, he had chosen a dark water surface to be shown on his sigil, with a large tentacle reaching up from it to the sky. Said tentacle was adorned with sharp thorns, paying homage to House Tyrell's golden rose. The artful design of Nereon's brooch showed neither the waves that inspired Ser Eldrion's words, 'Wild waters run deep', nor did the tentacles bear any thorns. There was something repulsive yet enthralling about the item. However, Beric had not asked about its origin, expecting it would only lead to another gruesome story he did not care to hear.

“I often yearn for the waters and the rocky shores of my home,” Nereon's voice pulled Beric away from his contemplation. “And I fear it begins to seep through my songs.” The minstrel sighed again, then his face lightened up and he looked back to Beric. “I should indeed try my hand at a new theme. It was amusing to be a morbid attraction for the Reach lords and let them gawk at what they consider a foreign and queer culture. But it is time I move on to new shores.”

 

﴾ _____________________________________________________________________________________ ﴿

 

It was chilly on deck this late in the evening and the moon stood high in the crystal clear sky. Not a single cloud obscured the pale crescent and the countless tiny lights of stars sparkling and reflecting in the calm ink-black waters. There was a dreamlike, almost mystical atmosphere out over the ocean and it was only enhanced by the silence on deck.

Beric had left the common room right after Nereon had begun telling yet another tale of dead sailors to the equally alive and drunk crew of the ship. The contrast to the crowded room, the cheers of the gamblers and their lewd jokes made the night feel especially peaceful and the cool air was even more refreshing after being exposed to the smell of sweat and that detestable ale. Beric climbed the stairs to the foredeck and found Thoros, lazing with a bottle of wine in a hammock between rigging and mast.

“That's what you call 'quickly fetching new wine'?” Beric slowly crossed the deck toward the cozy hideout.

“If I hear one more story about people losing their minds on a ship, I'll lose mine, too. And my temper along with it.” Thoros lazily pushed a nearby barrel with his foot to rock the hammock.

“I don't blame you for that.” Beric glared down at the hammock, certainly blaming Thoros for not giving up this comfortable spot in his favor. “It's puzzling that Leiff and Anguy don't grow tired of listening. But you could have told me you'd stay outside when you left.”

Thoros smiled blithely and shrugged. “I knew you'd come looking for me sooner or later. Had to make sure you don't get here first and claim my hammock. ” Beric huffed and his gaze grew more reproachful, feigning offense at such suspicions, though he truly felt caught in the act. Had he known the hammock was here, he'd have tried to get to it first and they both knew it. It would not have been knightly to steal a cozy spot from a friend, but this spot was cozy enough to warrant a little exception from the usual rules. Thoros chuckled and sighed with some amusement, then sluggishly let one leg dangle down from the hammock, making just enough room for Beric to sit.

Beric raised an eyebrow, trying to look reprimanding, but he sat down and gestured for the bottle of wine. Thoros gave it to him and pulled Beric's black cloak over him to serve as a blanket. “Frustrated that Leiff is downstairs with the gamblers?” he guessed as Beric took a long pull.

“No.” Beric closed the bottle and returned it to Thoros. “He doesn't make wagers. He just sits with the sailors and listens to the tales of their travels.” His gaze wandered out to the ocean and the moonlit waves, getting lost somewhere on the distant horizon. “All he ever buys is stew in each tavern. Or a keepsake to bring home to his siblings sometimes. He still has most of the coins I gave him back in King's Landing.” A brief smile played on his lips. “I never told him to be careful with his spending, so I'm rather proud he did not follow the admittedly bad example I set at first.”

“What troubles you then, my lord?” Thoros asked as Beric's smile faded. “Second thoughts about the tourney at Blackbridge after what Nereon told us about Lord Marsh?”

Beric slowly shook his head and tried to tug his cloak back to cover his legs. “I don't know,” he said quietly. “Maybe I'm just exhausted. Ever since we came on board, eerie dreams have been haunting my sleep. Every night I'm taken to bizarre places. Landscapes that can't exist in the waking world, filled with strange creatures that defy nature. Abandoned castles and ruins of towns shrouded in shadow. A desolate island, surrounded by fog and endless black waters, in oceans so distant the sun never shines.” He sighed and shuddered. “It's probably just Nereon's stories finally getting to me.”

“The nights are dark and full of terrors indeed,” Thoros gave back. His hand snuck up behind Beric, trying to steal the cloak back unnoticed, but Beric was vigilant this time. He turned a bit and leaned back against Thoros and thereby trapped the cloak. Thoros quietly groaned and shifted until he found a slightly more comfortable position with Beric's weight resting on him. “I rarely recall my dreams,” he said and wrapped his arms around Beric in a lazy attempt to drag him up higher and free the cloak. “But here at sea, my memory seems heightened. I remember similar dreams to what you describe.”

Beric didn't seem to find it very comfortable either. He grumbled, sat up and pushed Thoros' other leg down from the hammock, before turning around to slouch over him, chest to chest. “I gave Nereon the idea of writing some more cheerful songs or poems,” he mumbled, wriggling around until he found a comfy position, his head resting on Thoros' shoulder, his hand quickly stealing the wine.

Thoros reached for the now freed cloak and spread it out over Beric to cover both of them in the chilliness of the night. “Would be a nice change indeed,” he said, watching Beric's laborious efforts to drink without moving too much with amusement. “I heard even some of the sailors mentioned distressing dreams.”

Finally, Beric managed to drink and closed the bottle, then put it back on the planks under the hammock. He rested his head on Thoros' shoulder again and his gaze drifted to the dark horizon in the far West once more.

“What do you think is West of Westeros?” Beric asked after a while. “Besides the Iron Islands. I mean West of those.”

Thoros shrugged, as much as he could, and his gaze followed Beric's to the black waves. “Probably the same as South of Essos,” he replied. “Water, more water and maybe a few smaller islands.”

Silence fell again and Beric looked thoughtful as he pondered that answer. “So you don't think there is any truth to Nereon's stories? You don't believe there is a sunken city on the ground of those oceans?”

Thoros' hand emerged from under the cloak to absently stroke Beric's head. “Black monoliths that fell from the sky and were used to build giant deep sea castles? Creatures that lived even before the First Men were born?” Thoros chuckled. “It does sound a bit far-fetched to me, but who knows? Maybe it's true.” Beric kept staring into the distance and didn't answer. “Though it would suit Nereon's tales a little too well that all but one sailor who ventured West returned feeble-minded and died shortly after,” Thoros added.

Now Beric slightly lifted his head, made a small effort to look at Thoros, but then just gave up. “It would be quite a coincidence indeed if only the knight Nereon serves lived and remained sane enough to tell those tales,” he agreed. “And I believe Ser Eldrion recommended a smith at Horn Hill who forged his strange helmet. He didn't find it on a mysterious island in uncharted waters.”

“It's a fantastical tale that a bored fisherman was the only one to come back from the West,” Thoros continued. “There are captains like Euron Greyjoy who sailed every sea under the sun, as far as Qarth and Asshai. He's a lunatic for sure, but he's also very much still alive.”

“He was West of Westeros then?” Beric's hand searched the wine under the hammock, blindly feeling around.

“Maybe?” Thoros shrugged. “Met him just once and that was in battle. I don't really remember it, but I highly doubt there was time to discuss his travels. I do know that places like Qarth and Asshai are not the first destinations of adventurous captains. If Euron went there, he's been everywhere else before that. Had he found anything of note in the West, I think somebody would know.”

“Has he been South of Essos as well?” Beric moved, enough to relieve Thoros of the weight, but he still didn't find the wine on the floor. Thoros took the chance to adjust his position and push Beric to his side, only trapping one arm under him.

“I never heard of such claims,” he replied and pulled Beric's cloak over with his free hand to cover them both. “But I reckon someone was there, at some point in history. The Ironborn are not the only seafaring people who ever lived. Someone has sailed South from the South and found Sothoryos and the Summer Islands. Someone's been North of the North as well, to the island of Ib and the Land of Always Winter. Why would nobody have thought to look what lies in the other directions?”

A clank and a quiet sigh from Beric let Thoros know the wine had been found and knocked over under the hammock. “Then why does nobody know what is there?” Beric leaned further down, still unwilling to give up the spot he had conquered in favor of the bottle.

Amused, Thoros watched him fish for the lost bottle and lazily tried to hold the warm cloak in place. “Maybe somebody does and there's just not a thing worth to mention,” he gave back. “Maybe the Red Waste goes on forever and ever. Maybe there's just another rocky coast where nobody lives and nothing but water beyond that. Maybe Euron Greyjoy did go there and didn't tell anyone because it makes for a dull story to find only more rocks.” He wanted to add something, but he paused and Beric stopped his efforts to reach the wine as well.

  
Down on the main deck, a dark shape soared up the stairs through the hatch of the common room, like a restless soul levitating over an unearthed grave. The ship swayed to and fro, as if the tides woke from their slumber, not enough to alarm the sailors down in the common room, but an eerie sight out here on deck. The shape lingered for a moment, the strange brooch gleaming in the pale moonlight, surrounded by deep, thick darkness, then Nereon moved. He purposefully headed for the cargo hold hatch, disappeared from sight when he reached the main mast and then he was gone.

Only once Nereon was under deck again, did Beric finally succeed in his attempts to find the wine. “He gives me chills,” he noted, still looking down to the main deck where the minstrel had been. “Something is just not right about him.”

Thoros slightly nodded and watched Beric open the bottle, just to steal it away from him before he could drink. Beric quietly grumbled at the theft, Thoros took a long pull and gave the wine back. “I know what you mean,” he said. “He talks the talk I expect from a minstrel, but he walks an entirely different walk.”

Beric drank and closed the bottle again, but this time he didn't put it down on the floor. Instead, he cradled it in his arms to prevent further attempts to steal it and turned back to his side to stare at the sea. “One of the guards is seasick,” he said with a sigh. “Two of the others have asked to return to Blackhaven and leave the ship in the next port.” He reached up and grabbed Thoros' arm to pull it in a more comfortable position under his head. “I gave them permission,” he added and sighed again. “Maybe that wasn't a wise thing to do, but I understand their unease all too well.”

“It is a small tourney,” Thoros gave back. “Two guards might be enough. You know Anguy and I can watch out for ourselves and we'll have your back if need be.”

No answer came; Beric was lost in thought, his mind as far away as the horizon and what lay beyond. For a while it was silent except for the monotone rushing of water and the steady rhythm of loose ropes tapping on wood. “Maybe his tales are true,” Beric then absently mumbled. “Perhaps he sailed with Euron Greyjoy and they saw the black monoliths of the sunken city and gained knowledge that no man should have. Maybe they both went mad over it, each in his own way.”

Thoros quietly laughed and shook his head. “If that was true, our ears would be spared.” He briefly ruffled Beric's hair, then his hand snuck back under the cloak. “Men who sail with Euron Greyjoy certainly possess such knowledge, but they never share. His ship is called Silence for a good reason.” The hand crept over Beric toward the bottle, found it and then lingered there.

“What reason is that?” Beric asked, though he didn't sound too interested. “He makes them swear they'll never speak of the things they see?”

Thoros' hand closed around the treasure Beric harbored and carefully began to pull it out from his arms. “He cuts their tongues out,” he replied, matter-of-factly.

"Why did I even ask?" Beric sighed and tightened his arms around the bottle. "On this ship, no tale seems to end without gruesome details."

 

﴾ _____________________________________________________________________________________ ﴿

 

The following days were restful and quiet, compared to the minstrel's torment before. Nereon spent much less time singing, but Beric could see him sedulously glide around all across the ship every day. He stopped to critically regard random items or contemplate the work of a sailor, then moved on with brows furrowed in thought to do it again somewhere else. Apparently, the conversation about his lack of inspiration had fallen on fertile ground. The buzz made the strange minstrel more human to Beric and took away some of the eerie aura that surrounded Nereon even by day.

Beric did not even mind his company anymore and patiently answered odd question while he fished. Nereon inquired with an air of importance about mundane subjects and pondered the replies he received in deep thought. What colors the Stormlands favored for coats of arms or banners, if Beric found forests calming and if he had ever traveled to Dorne. Nereon spent an entire afternoon with Leiff on the main deck and whenever Beric walked by, he heard them talk about stew. On another day he found Nereon and Anguy playing cards in the common room, having a deep conversation about breeds of horses. By the time they reached the port of Faircastle, Nereon had also discussed witchcraft with Thoros, as well as the habits of the people native to Lys. Only when Nereon called Anguy and Thoros to a table to gain insights about the differences between Southern brothels and those in King's Landing, Beric politely excused himself from the chatty gathering.

The Golden Harvest's route took them up the coastline of the Westerlands and the further North they traveled, the wilder the sea raged. They had passed the Crag and the port of Banefort and would soon see the daunting towers of Pyke on their way West. The waters were darker here and the sky's clear blue had given way to rain clouds and shades of pale purple and grey. Harsher winds and colder air, often paired with a drizzle, chased the passengers off the deck.

Anguy was dozing in his hammock, sleeping with one eye open, wary of fishing nets even when napping by day. Beric sat on the small table with Thoros and explained their game of cyvasse to Leiff. A knock on the door made him pause and call the unexpected visitor in. Nereon looked wet when the door opened, as he always did, and he had an important look on his face. Unlike earlier during the journey, the water in his cloak and hair was not an illusion. Drops really fell to the cabin's dry floor. But he did not enter. With an ominous voice, he asked Beric to come with him instead. Since the minstrel's recent demeanor had not been as odd anymore, Beric shrugged and got up. He instructed Leiff to take over his pieces before he left the cabin.

Nereon acted as if he carried a great and terrible secret as he led Beric down the narrow corridor to Captain Burgess' cabin. However, the tone of his voice appeared to be only a habit and it was colored with almost child-like excitement now instead of the usual heralding doom. In the cabin, Beric had an immediate suspicion about the reason for Nereon's high spirits. A large table, scattered with sea charts and old books, also held several scrolls of parchment with smears and puddles of black ink. Nereon drifted straight toward the table, not paying attention to his bizarre instrument on the shelf next to the door. He picked up a sheet of parchment and proudly handed it to Beric to read the scribbled lines.

“These are the words to a cheerful song,” he explained. “You are the first to see what I wrote, since you blessed me with such inspiration, my lord.”

Surprised, Beric raised an eyebrow. “You honor me,” he gave back, uncertain if that was what the reaction the minstrel expected.

Nereon impatiently nodded to the parchment. “Read it. I'm curious to hear what you think.” Beric obliged, though it was a long text and some parts were crossed out and scribbled over in even smaller and more jittery letters than the rest. The more he read the more confused his expression became and finally, he looked up to Nereon, struggling for words.

“What do you think?” Nereon smiled expectantly and with furtive eyes.

Beric cleared his throat and shot a quick glance to the open door behind him, just in case he'd need a quick way to escape. "I don't know how to say this and maybe it's because I'm no expert in poetry, but..." he hesitantly began.

"But what?” Nereon instantly interrupted. “You gave me the idea to write a cheerful ballad. I did. Nobody dies, nothing gets drowned in the ocean and the titular Dreaming Prince even finds a new home."

"The Dornish Prince's ship wrecks at the coast of Sothoryos,” Beric slowly replied. “The crew does die, though you refrained from describing it in detail.”

“The prince lives,” Nereon firmly interjected. “That is what matters, isn't it? What do you think about his story?”

Beric nodded and took a deep breath. “I guess that's cheerful compared to your other ballads,” he admitted. “The prince survives and makes his way through the jungle to the ruins of Yeen. There he finds strange glowing mushrooms to feed him and give him bizarre yet beautiful dreams. But..."

"But what?” Nereon's black eyes regarded Beric skeptically. “Are you saying the poor mushrooms get eaten and that makes it too gloomy?"

Beric quickly shook his head. "No, I'm saying you describe the prince's bright yellow robes in no less than six verses and the last one mentions a blind witch, a white horse and a young woman who play no role at all in the story and were never brought up before."

"So? Yellow is a cheerful color.” Nereon shrugged and crossed his arms under his peculiar brooch. “Lady Thorncliffe often wears yellow dresses made by a tailor from Lemonwood and she says the sunny color always puts her in high spirits. Yellow may well be the most cheerful color of all, if she is to be believed." He narrowed his eyes furtively. "And you don't mean to imply that Ser Eldrion's wife is a liar, do you?"

Beric sighed. "Of course not, but your ballad doesn't make any sense. I admit I'm surprised you didn't mention the ghastly legends of Yeen and instead describe the dreams as calming and of ethereal beauty. However, it's far from cheerful just because you mention yellow robes from Dorne. The crew still dies at sea, even if the sailors are not part of the story, and the prince still gets lost in a strange, foreign land."

With a swift, unexpected move, Nereon plucked the parchment from Beric's hand. "Oh, and here I was thinking you are no expert for poetry and now it's somehow my fault you don't understand my cheerful story."

Again, Beric sighed and made one more attempt at politeness. "Well, maybe it sounds better when the words are carried by your... instrument's... music..." It cost him some effort to call those bizarre sounds 'music' and the instrument was still one of torture to his strained ears. This was the most polite way he found to phrase it, but Nereon would have none of it either way.

"Maybe, maybe, maybe you just don't have an appreciation for the fine arts.” He huffed and turned away from Beric and to the table. “At least I learned my lesson to not share my work with an uncultured layman."


	18. Shadow Over Blacktyde

It was noon when the shores of Blacktyde, the northernmost island, came into view. The time of the day had made little difference during the last days of the journey and was hard to tell. Out here, so close to the edge of the Known World, the sky was always drab and the scattered clouds with sharp, jagged edges that loomed over islands blurred with the color, like ash on dull rocks. Even the captain's jovial nature had given way to unease and concern. The black ocean with its erratic winds, hidden currents and unforgiving riptides around tiny, rugged islands was a challenge even for the most seasoned sailors. To the seabirds on their rocky isles, the Golden Harvest had to look out of place in those dreary waters, a small dot of color lost in infinite grey.

The island of Blacktyde was no exception. The small harbor seemed drained of all vivid colors, and the weather-worn, crooked houses of the shantytown that made up Blackbridge felt forlorn, almost abandoned. Many of them had boarded up windows, on others they were half obscured by moldy shutters, like dead eyes that had grown tired of watching the sea. On the Northern side of the port, Castle Blackbridge towered over the ghost town, attached to the island with a wide bridge made of the eponymous black stone. It led across small outcroppings of rock, surrounded by crashing waves, to the forbidding gates of the castle. There were taut strings above the bridge's thick balustrades with small banners streaming in the cold gale, but the festive decoration did nothing to give the gloomy fortress a more welcoming touch.

Some of the Golden Harvest's sailors refused to set foot on the island, claiming Blackbridge was awash with bad luck and curses. Nereon, on the other hand, had no such reservations. In the tristesse of the village nestled against the rocks behind the harbor, he was a shining beacon of joy. He ambled up and down the only road of Blackbridge, unpaved, aligned with the docks on the slight elevation above the harbor's wall. His tread no longer seemed quite as strange anymore, but the squeaking of his flute had not undergone any improvements, much to his companions' dismay.

Beric had said his farewells to Captain Burgess and confirmed the date when the Golden Harvest would return on the way back from Seagard to take them home. He threw one last glance at the colorful ship, then he nodded to Thoros, Leiff, Anguy and the two guards still with them and headed for the path leading up to the road.

 

“King Robert really took up arms to fight over _this_?” Anguy's gaze grazed the small, shabby houses as they walked up the path. On the Southern end of the road they could now see a town square, with only few villagers roaming around. They looked impoverished, dressed in dirty rags with washed out hoods obscuring their faces, and they carried woven baskets or dragged wooden carts. If there was a market, it consisted of only two stalls. One sold fish and other seafood. The barrels were visible from the party's position. The second one was half hidden behind a large well in the middle of the square. Only one crate with bolts of cloth stood in a place that could clearly be seen from the road and gave any hint to the stall's wares.

“Pyke, Great Wyk and Harlaw are bigger islands,” Thoros gave back, wondering why he tried to find excuses for these sorry rocks. “Though it was more about principle than resources. The crown doesn't need the ore mined by the Ironborn, not with the abundance the Vale and the Stormlands provide. Another thing the crown doesn't need is a rebel who calls himself 'king' of the Iron Islands. That's what Balon Greyjoy did, his bloodline is prone to such grandiose delusions. It didn't matter that the place he happened to sit on is worthless. It was a rebellion and the true king had to quench it.”

“Pyke did look much more impressive”, Leiff said, pulling the reins to convince Beric's reluctant horse to move faster. “How did they even build it that far above raging waters?”

“I don't want to know.” Thoros shuddered. “But one thing I can tell you for sure. If I had known the cliffs are that lofty, I would have stayed on the ship and left the cursed gate in peace.”

Nereon tumbled toward the group when they came closer and looked around on the almost deserted road. His mood was still more elated than it had been on any day of their journey and Beric began to understand why all his songs were so gloomy. If the bleak landscape of this desolate island delighted him like this, it was no surprise Nereon's idea of 'cheerful' didn't translate at all to Southern ears.

“Isn't it wondrous?” Nereon confirmed Beric's suspicions regarding his strange sense of beauty and joy. “I can almost taste the salty breeze of my own shores from here!”

“Where are those?” Anguy asked and looked out to the ocean where the Golden Harvest prepared to set sail and continue the journey. “This looks like the end of the world to me.”

Nereon smirked, his crooked teeth exposed. “Not much farther,” he replied with an ominous tone. “But let us not speak of it and instead see that we get you settled in.” He nodded over his shoulder without turning around, to one of the larger houses facing the street. A weather-worn sign above the door read 'Reaper's Haunt' and showed a painted mug of ale below the faded letters.

 

﴾ _____________________________________________________________________________________ ﴿

 

The Reaper's Haunt was, unsurprisingly, the only tavern in Blackbridge. The common room of the quaint, warped building was cozier than the almost derelict outside appearance had suggested. A fire was crackling in a large hearth of dark stone and there was even more life in here than on the road and the town square. Three hooded figures sat on the counter, locals from the way they were dressed. On a corner table sat the only other patrons, two men with a boy by his side each. They drank ale and quietly chatted about the upcoming tourney, visiting knights and their squires, Beric guessed.

Nereon excused himself to make arrangements for his lodging after he had introduced the Reaper's Haunt's owners and recommended the tavern's sea urchin soup. Rugard, a tall, taciturn man with a long, black beard, sat behind the counter and played cards with two of the local patrons. His wife Yesha, a rotund woman almost as burly as her husband, was more talkative and had a naturally loud and brisk voice.

“You 'ere for the tourney,” she noted, briefly glancing at Beric's sword, then her eyes jumped to the bow Anguy carried and rested there with more interest and approval.

“We are”, Beric replied and sat down on a bare wooden bench at a large oval table.

“You should take a look at our 'istorical exhibits while you're 'ere.” Yesha pointed to a long, faded curtain that hid a corner of the common room. “We got the bones of a mermaid,” she added. “Somethin' to tell your friends about when you get 'ome. You don't see such bones every day, it's a rare attraction even 'ere.”

“She's just trying to get a few coins from you,” one of the men on the other table loudly commented. “It's not mermaid bones, it's the remains of a seal with a skull of a child attached to the spine.”

Yesha glared at him angrily, then she looked back to Beric and his group on the table. “Still somethin' you don't see every day,” she defiantly said. “And we also got wreckage from Victarion Greyjoy's ship and...”

“That's just a moldy plank,” the man interrupted again. “Could be from any ship, could be from a dock or bridge or nothing but driftwood.”

“I'll take a look either way,” Beric firmly gave back and stood up. “I didn't make the long way from the South to stay ignorant to the local culture. If it was just a seal I won't mind. I haven't seen the remains of a seal or a mermaid. Whichever it is, it's a new sight to me.”

“Good point,” Anguy agreed and got up. “I haven't seen seal bones either.” Thoros and Leiff exchanged a brief look, then both followed Anguy's example.

Triumphantly, Yesha took Beric's coins and stored them in a pocket of her brown apron. “And to see this attraction, whatever it is, I don't have to ride for weeks through the cold,” Beric mumbled as he followed her to the curtain. “It may not be spectacular, but it's more comfortable than visiting the Wall and the Nightfort.” Thoros chuckled when the four people on the table turned their heads in surprise, intrigued by Beric's unintentional hint at tales of a more exciting adventure.

“Is that your horse outside?” the second man inquired, languidly glancing out of the window. Beric nodded absently while regarding a broken plank with a small sign claiming it belonged to Victarion Greyjoy's ship long ago. “You shouldn't leave it out of sight,” the man said.

Now Beric looked up and turned around. “Why? There's barely anyone on the road outside.” He stepped aside to let Thoros behold the supposedly famous piece of wood.

“Been here for two days,” the man replied. “People tried to steal both our horses several times.”

“It's a poor place,” the other man added. “Where despair and hunger reigns, no horse is safe.”

Beric blankly stared at him as the meaning of the words sank in. “Go watch the horse,” he ordered the two guards still sitting at the table and they both jumped up and hurried outside, leaving their mugs of ale behind. “Where are your horses now?” Beric turned back to the two supposed knights. “Did the thieves succeed? I didn't see any horses or guards.”

“There's an inn at the town square”, the first man gave back. “For a few extra coins, they let you use their boathouse as stable. I assume you're going to stay in that inn? Or has your friend made other arrangements?”

For a moment, Beric was puzzled, then he realized the man referred to Nereon as their 'friend'. That thought was far from occurring to Beric, but he didn't comment on it. “We will go to the inn once he returns,” he replied, now looking down at the bones Yesha claimed belonged to a mermaid. “Do you happen to know if there are free rooms to rent?”

“One,” the man plainly answered. “There's only two rooms and a small attic. But one room is free, we share the other one. Arrived together from Banefort and it's better to travel in packs on these islands. Should Ser Teodor show up this year...” He laughed. “He's used to the attic. Always takes the last possible ship and never thinks to make any arrangements.”

“Probably took the Queensflame to Blacktyde,” the second man agreed with a slight nod. “That fool claimed it's faster to ride all across the island last year and might just put that wet idea to the test.”

“I always suspected he's soft in the 'ead,” Yesha dryly commented. She leaned against the wall and held the dusty curtain open while the visitors browsed the strange exhibits. On a small table sat the only thing that caught Beric's attention, though he did not inquire about it. It was a piece of jewelry, maybe an anklet or bangle. The peculiar design was similar to Nereon's brooch and it appeared to be made of the same metal. Though the piece looked ancient and tinged with age, it gleamed as if moonlight fell upon it even in the dim light of the tavern.

“You like this one?” Yesha had noticed Beric's interest despite him not speaking up about it.

“What is it made of?” Thoros asked. He had stepped closer and still inspected the item over Beric's shoulder.

“I don't know,” Yesha replied with a shrug. “Lord Marsh used to bring things like this back from the sea. He's been a raider in younger years, until 'is brother fell dead of a 'orse. Built a new mine in the mountains to find more of the metal, but it's been seventeen years now and there's just nothin' there.”

The door swung open and two men entered the tavern. They headed straight for the occupied table and mentioned their shift in the boathouse should have ended an hour ago.

Yesha regarded them with a bored expression and turned her attention back to the group viewing the exhibits in the corner. “Maybe there was some of that metal in the old mine, the one Old Lord Marsh built long ago,” she picked up the subject. “Never 'eard they found anything, but I 'aven't been born 'ere, so what do I know?" She tied the curtain to a dull hook in the wall to hold it open before she went the few steps to her moldy bar. There was no money to be made from the new arrivals, the men had no interest in the exhibition either way. Yesha forcefully knocked on a small door behind the counter, probably the way to the kitchen. "Came 'ere from Great Wyk fifteen years ago, a year after Lord Marsh's first tourney”, she then continued. “Me man, Rugard, he's from Blacktyde. Inherited the tavern from 'is late father, but there was no ore 'ere even when 'is old man was still alive.” She nodded to her husband who still hadn't said a word and just kept staring at the cards in his hand. “Met 'im at the tourney and he made me 'is rock wife.”

“What is a rock wife?” Beric whispered to Thoros, noticing Yesha put a strong emphasis on the word 'rock'.

Thoros looked up from a walrus tusk adorned with a small sign claiming it was the tooth of a sea beast. “The true wife of an Ironborn man, if you will,” he quietly answered. “Some have salt wives, something between servants and concubines that they bring home from raids.” Beric shot him an appalled glance, but didn't wait for a more detailed explanation and quickly pretended to study the 'leviathan tooth'.

The door behind the counter opened and a blonde woman, not much younger than Yesha, entered the common room with a tray of bowls. "Natylia, she's 'is salt wife.” Yesha nodded to the occupied table and Natylia went around the bar to serve the soup to the men. “Me Rugard's the only man in Blackbridge who 'as one, 'cept of course Lord Marsh and 'is sons."

Now Beric peeked over to Thoros again, confusion written in his eyes. Yesha sounded proud of Natylia's presence, not hurt or offended that her husband had taken another wife besides her. “Salt wives show status,” Thoros explained with hushed words. “They can neither be bought nor sold for money. She's proud that her man is...” He paused and glanced to the bar where Rugard wordlessly slammed a card on the counter. “...that he _was_ a feared raider,” Thoros continued. “He can afford to keep a salt wife and that probably means he's the second wealthiest man in the village after Lord Marsh.” Beric gave him an incredulous stare. The tavern did not look like a wealthy man owned it and certainly didn't see many visitors, not out here at the end of the world.

 

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Once they had finished their inspection of the underwhelming oddities in Yesha's corner, Beric, Thoros, Anguy and Leiff returned to their table to inquire what food was served. Natylia took their orders, grilled salmon and shrimps, a soup with fresh mussels and as always, Leiff asked for the stew. One of the men from the other table leaned over when Natylia had returned to the kitchen and Yesha filled mugs with ale on her counter. He introduced himself as Ser Danyal Westerling, though his accent certainly did not match the region he claimed to be from. One of the younger boys was indeed his squire, the other merely the second man's younger brother. But once he'd be known as _Ser_ Francis, that man insisted, he'd take his brother into his service and make him a squire. He'd be knighted soon, Francis said. He already had caught the attention of a lord in Pinkmaiden, so it shouldn't take long. Ser Danyal laughed and commented Francis said this every year, then continued to make introductions. The men who had arrived later were two of three sellswords, hired to guard the horses and provide protection during the tourney. Things could get rowdy, Ser Danyal warned with amusement, then he got straight to the point and asked about Beric's trip to the Wall.

When the food was served, they moved places and sat down on the other table with the new acquaintances they had made. As gruff and uncouth as the men were, they seemed glad to have more company before the tourney. “I almost feared we'd be stuck with them and play cards until the last ship and the locals from other islands arrive.” Ser Danyal nodded to the counter and the men sitting on stools like statues. “There's only so much to tell about raiding the coastline,” he added and rolled his eyes. “I'd rather trade more exciting stories and you seem to have those.” Beric gladly took the chance and began with their stay at Castle Black.

Neither Ser Danyal nor his companions had been that far North, but they had traveled with a man who had, for reasons they didn't mention, been sentenced to live out his remaining years at the Wall. It remained unclear whether they liked their former associate or not, but they took great interest in what his fate might contain. One of the sellswords shared a story of his travels to the island of Ib once Beric had finished. As cold as the North and even more distant from other lands than the Iron Islands, he said. The natives were suspicious of strangers, but they had shown him around in their quaint town with its narrow alleys lit by lamps that burned whale oil.

Despite the chilly locations discussed, Beric warmed up to the group on the table. These men were not the most reputable company one could keep, but Beric didn't seem to begrudge the lack of more knightly options. The relative isolation of three weeks on a ship made anyone not wearing the sailors' blue clothes a welcome change.

Anguy brought up his victories as an archer and Francis assured him such skills would find much approval during the tourney. The Ironborn, though the term did not suggest it, were famed for their mastery of bow and arrow and always keen to give foreigners a real challenge. Inevitably, the subject of brothels came up, as Anguy was inclined to spend his winnings in such. Ser Danyal's group had much to say about this topic as well. Thoros felt Beric inch closer to him, but he didn't complain, remained stoic and listened. The sellsword who had seen the city of Ibben had also traveled to Braavos. He had wooed a much admired courtesan there and claimed she agreed to give him her hand in marriage. Sadly, he was called away on the urgent business of killing, so nothing ever came of their liaison. The other sellsword was less interested in romance, it seemed, as he brought up the black brothels of Oldtown. Ser Danyal made a bold statement, saying he had a lass in each harbor across the Iron Islands and some of the Westerlands, though for some reason, the girl awaiting his return in Blackbridge hadn't yet shown up. When Francis mentioned having a lover on each island of the Three Sisters, Beric took the chance to direct the conversation back to his adventures far in the North. His tale of the Nightfort was cut short by Nereon's return, but their new friends didn't mind the interruption. Ser Danyal said they should get settled in and continue their drinking bout later, as ghost stories and raunchier tales were better told after dark.

 

﴾ _____________________________________________________________________________________ ﴿

 

Nereon was still in high spirits when the group followed him out to the road. He even apologized for the inconvenience of not arranging accommodations ahead of their arrival, not without mentioning that it was unlikely the inn would not have a free room days before the tourney began. Once they arrived on the town square, lined by dark, slanted stone houses, Nereon abruptly stopped. “You can take it from here.” He vaguely nodded toward the Northern row of houses and was about to turn back to the road and the harbor where the pallid, weak sun set when Thoros held him up.

The buildings all looked the same on each side of the square, with only minor variations here and there. Some had clothing lines stretched from window to window across narrow alleys that led into a maze of wooden stairs and smaller shacks, others cowered behind stacked crates and barrels that hid the ground floor's windows and doors. One had a pen that looked like it was made to hold chickens in the beaten path next to it, but no poultry was in it. On another house, a large rack leaned, holding a number of small animal hides. In front of it, two hooded figures were busy gutting the carcasses of what appeared to be rats. None of the buildings had a sign or any hint of being an inn.

Reluctantly, Nereon agreed to show them the way and ambled toward a house like any other on the Northern side of the square. Beric exchanged an irritated glance with Thoros before he knocked on the door. For a long moment, nothing happened; except that Nereon retreated halfway to the well. His high spirits had faded and there was a strange tension in his expression, eyes furtively narrowed as if he expected a fight. “Are you certain this is the inn?” Beric called over to him and received a silent nod as only answer. He turned back to the house when there was a muffled rumble behind the door and it finally opened.

The woman who stood in the doorway made Maester Jeon look like a young buck. She had to be as ancient as legends of dragons, her face wrinkly as driftwood, her frail, tiny body bowed down by the weight of her years. Beric almost laughed. This was the enemy Nereon kept at a distance?

“Who's you?” The old woman regarded Beric with suspicious eyes, then her glance wandered around him to his waiting companions. “Oh, you 'ere for the tourney,” she noted, suddenly much softer and friendlier than the harsh greeting. Slightly confused, Beric looked back to see what had given the answer in his place and found it to be Anguy's bow.

“We are,” Beric looked back to the old woman and his glance grazed a man of similar age who had appeared in the hallway behind her and silently stared at the door. “We heard you rent out rooms to travelers and...”

“You 'eard that right,” the woman cut him off with a firm nod. “One room's still free, if you want it. 'ow many of your group will stay 'ere?” She peeked around Beric again with furrowed brows, then looked up to him with leery eyes.

“That's the entire group,” Beric replied. “I was also told you have a boathouse for the horse and...”

“Aye, we do, we do,” she interrupted and finally stepped aside to let Beric enter. Thoros, Anguy and Leiff followed, but before the guards came any closer, the old woman blocked the door again.

“Not you!” she angrily barked to the town square outside. Surprised and a bit shocked, Beric turned around. She didn't look at the guards or the horse, she glared at Nereon. “You stay away, or me Gustav ends you, you 'ear me?” The old man slowly reached for a harpoon leaning against the slanted wall of the hallway. Taken aback by the sudden hostility, Beric was at a loss for words and glad that Leiff spoke up to calm down the confusing situation.

“He won't stay with us,” Leiff quickly assured the old couple. “He made other arrangements for himself and only showed us the right house.”

The old man left the harpoon where it was and loudly coughed, his wife skeptically regarded Leiff before she shut the door. “Gustav shows you the room,” she said, now calmer. “I'll take you to the boathouse after.” She shuffled through an archway into a large room, toward a weather-worn trunk. “And I give you 'ammocks for the guards. You don't want your 'orse unguarded 'round 'ere.”

“I'm sure our companion doesn't mean you any harm,” Anguy said when they followed the old man up the crooked, squeaking stairs. “He's a queer fellow, but he's alright.”

“Cursed creature,” the old man mumbled and dryly coughed. “They don't belong 'ere. The islands aren't for them.” He paused halfway up the stairs, took a deep breath and then began heaving his rickety body up the rest of the way.

Anguy shot a quizzical glance to Beric and only got an equally clueless shrug back. “What do you mean, he doesn't belong here?” he turned back to the innkeeper. “He's from the Iron Islands, is he not?”

The old man let out a sardonic laugh when he arrived on the first floor. “They think they're Ironborn, but me Yrmgard and I lived long enough to see them for what they truly are. I know 'im, your companion. Comes to that dreadful lord's tourney year by year.” He waited for the guests to reach the squeaking landing, studying each of them closely, then decided to reveal some more of his insights in a warning, ominous tone. “You're not from 'ere, you can't know that. All I can do is warn you to be wary around that foul thing. 'is father was a Farwynd bastard from the Lonely Light, Oren Pyke was the name, I believe. They're not like us on that island, not at all.” He ignored the questioning glances and shuffled around the crooked banister to open the only door on the right side of the building. There was also only a single door on the left side, probably leading to the room Ser Danyal's party occupied. Ahead of the stairs was a ladder that gave away its wonky nature just by looking at it for too long. “There we are,” the innkeeper said when they entered their room. “Not as fancy as folks like you are used to, but it's better than the attic.”

 

﴾ _____________________________________________________________________________________ ﴿

 

It was an understatement. The room was surprisingly large and had five simple beds, a small fireplace of black stone and a small table with two armchairs under the window across from it. But other than that, there were only two heavy, wooden chests and a sideboard with a metal basin. No bench, no chairs, no curtains, no mirror, no decor on the walls. The floor was slightly slanted and covered with rugs that were probably made from old sails. It was far from fancy indeed, but it would be enough to find rest for a few nights.

While they had brought the luggage inside, Thoros had looked around in the house and noticed that there were only two rooms downstairs as well. On the left, under Ser Danyal's room, was a bedroom that doubled as storage for fishing nets, barrels and tools. The room on the right contained a small kitchen, a table with four chairs, one of them broken, and a fireplace with an almost empty bookshelf and two armchairs next to it. There was no common room for guests and it was easy to see why. The houses of Blackbridge were not large enough to offer lodging to travelers and a tavern while still leaving space for the owners to live.

Yrmgard had taken Leiff, Anguy and the horse to the boathouse a short while ago, so the guards could return to the tavern and have a warm meal after all. From the window, Thoros had noticed Yrmgard carried the harpoon, though Nereon was nowhere to be seen on the town square. Her husband, Gustav, had given Thoros a stack of towels from the storage room downstairs and then returned to the fireplace to study a leather-bound tome.

Beric sat in an armchair and stared at the crackling fire when Thoros brought the towels upstairs. He seemed preoccupied and only looked up after Thoros had put the stack on the sideboard with the basin and quizzically regarded him in the chair.

“What stifled your good mood from earlier?” Thoros asked directly. “Does the room not suit his lordship?” He slowly wandered toward the fireplace, waiting for an answer.

After a short silence, Beric shook his head. "The room is fine," he brushed the question away, looking for words to broach a different subject. "But our new friends... I think they don't truly understand the need to uphold chivalrous values." Thoros absently nodded and put a piece of wood in the fire. Beric cleared his throat, but didn't get more attention. "I don't want to look a fool to them," he cautiously continued. "Can you..." He hesitated and looked around as if he feared someone might overhear the conversation. "...tell me what one does in brothels?"

Now Thoros turned around and regarded Beric with disbelief and amusement. "Fuck whores, that's what one does," he gave back and slightly shrugged.

Beric stared at the small table between the armchairs. "I meant..." He broke off and let his gaze drift to the window, then back to Thoros. "...details," he finished the sentence.

"Details? About fucking whores?" Thoros laughed, still puzzled what Beric was getting at.

"Ser Danyal and his companions seem to like me and it appears to be a good thing to have friends in this place," Beric explained. "But they already hinted at more indecent stories. I don't want to give them a reason to lose their respect for me. If they find out I'm still... That I want to wait for the wedding night..." His eyes jumped to the flames in the fireplace. "I just..."

"You just want to lie to them," Thoros bluntly finished the sentence and came over to the table.

Quickly, Beric shook his head. "It's not lying," he said firmly, as if the accusation offended him. "I just want to nod and smile knowingly at the right cues when they tell their stories. I don't want to claim your deeds as mine."

"I didn't think so." Thoros laughed and sat down on the second armchair, across from Beric. "But what will you do if they inquire about _your_ exploits?"

Beric thought for a moment. "I'll say it's not knightly to reveal any details. That I value discretion.” He sighed with resignation. “Ser Danyal at least pretends to be a knight, so he should not press the matter, if only to not call his disguise into question.”

 

﴾ _____________________________________________________________________________________ ﴿

 

“Does that answer your question?” Thoros smirked and leaned back in the armchair, watching Beric in the fading light of the sunset that fell through the stained window.

"It was... insightful. And very unknightly." Beric tried to sound reprimanding, but it just came out flustered. He clutched the saggy cushion on his lap tighter with both hands and peered at the low burning flames in the fireplace.

Thoros laughed and got up from the armchair. "You asked," he said. "You wanted details." Beric nodded, still avoiding to meet Thoros' eye, and did not answer. "I'll see if I can find Leiff and Anguy." Thoros chuckled to himself and regarded the cushion, then his gaze wandered up to Beric's flushed cheeks. "Won't hurt to take a look at the boathouse either, just so I know where it is. We'll wait for you in the tavern instead of coming back here." Beric quizzically peeked up to him. "I reckon you might want to pray to the Maiden, to get release from those nasty sins I put in your ears," Thoros calmly explained. “And I know it's best done in seclusion, so I'll make sure you'll be undisturbed.” Realizing what Thoros insinuated, Beric immediately stared back to the fireplace and didn't reply. Thoros chuckled and ruffled Beric's hair, then he went to the door and heard it being locked once he stood on the landing outside.

 

﴾ _____________________________________________________________________________________ ﴿

 

Night had fallen when Beric snuck out of the inn and briskly crossed the dark town square toward the road. It was a new moon and only stars sparkled in the black sky above. The town square lay in darkness, but the road ahead was dimly illuminated by small lanterns; whale oil lamps like they used in Ibben, if the sellsword's tale was to be believed.

Beric did feel more relaxed now and prepared to bear the tales Ser Danyal and his friends would tell with fortitude and stoicism. The company he'd keep tonight would not be proper, but even indecent entertainment was preferable to the grotesque silence of the natives. The tavern's ale was more palatable than the swill of the sailors and all things considered, Beric looked forward to the bout of the night. He continued his way and reached the road with a spring in his step, a bit surprised about his own good mood.

On the corner, where the harbor came into sight, he stopped short. That was unmistakably Nereon's shape soaring up the path to the road, but no ship was in sight. The Queensflame from Banefort was expected the next day, Ser Danyal had mentioned this earlier, but even if she was ahead of schedule, she would not arrive this late in the evening. Beric walked slower and stretched his neck to see if there were maybe fishing boats, but then he remembered those did not dock here. They'd be further down the coast at this hour, in the direction he came from, docked on the sharp, jagged peninsula that housed the wharves. All he could see was Lord Marsh's longboat sway in the distance, still on the castle's private pier, where it had been all day.

After the innkeepers' warnings, Beric was not keen to be alone in the dark with Nereon, so he waited until the shadowy shape moved across the road and entered the tavern. When the door was opened, loud voices and laughter billowed out into the night. Apparently, there were more patrons inside than earlier now and they had a good time. Beric let out a sigh of relief and hurried to follow the minstrel, leaving the night with all its terrors, save this one, outside.

 


	19. The Blackbridge Horror

Beric, soaked with rain, stared down at the prize he had been given for winning the joust. He was more in a state of disbelief than he felt offended, the same notion he had regarding the circumstances of the joust as a whole. The four participants had to fight it out on the bridge and part of the road, as there wasn't enough room for real lists elsewhere. It had rained since the early hours of morning, the black stones had been slippery and a stiff wind blew throughout all tilts. Considering that, it was probably for the better that only one more jouster had shown up and the ordeal on the bridge didn't last more than an hour.

Ser Teodor, like Ser Danyal and Francis, traveled to Blackbridge every year to compete. Unlike Ser Danyal he was a genuine knight, but one who had fallen on hard times, that was easy to see. He arrived drunk on his horse only an hour before the joust was announced to begin, he did not bring guards or a squire and almost unseated himself in the first tilt. Not a soul cared about such disgraceful behavior and where Ser Teodor went after the joust, Beric did not see. Leiff had been the only person to point out, in hushed words, that Ser Danyal's shield lacked one of the six white shells from House Westerling's coat of arms. The placement of the five shells that were there was deliberate; the missing one had not fallen victim to the paint chipping off due to prolonged use. As obvious as this oversight was, it seemed nobody else noticed or cared.

This included Lord Marsh, a tall man with fish-pale skin and broad shoulders that sat on a much too skinny torso, carried by almost fragile-looking, lanky legs. His long leather robes were probably meant to distract from the disproportionate figure, but achieved the opposite and instead enhanced the grotesque look.

Lord Marsh only attended half of the sad spectacle on his bridge. It had still been raining during the first tilts and the host apparently didn't care to get wet. Only after a bored guard had informed him that it was time to judge the finale, Lord Marsh strode down the bridge. He did not take his chair by the end of the balustrade; he stoically stood behind it, as a puddle had formed on the seat. From there, he had watched the final tilt between Beric and Francis, a passable jouster, though not a true match. The bout was barely concluded when Lord Marsh called the victor, though 'calling' was the wrong word in this case. There was no herald to make any announcements and only a dozen of spectators lined the road. Lord Marsh had merely nodded in Beric's direction and grunted: “That one”. His voice was void of any interest or enthusiasm and the words still echoed when the lord already briskly walked back to the gate.

 

“Is this a joke?”

Beric just couldn't figure out if this was the presumably odd humor of the islanders or if they were serious about this prize. A handful of coins, just enough for one of the more expensive items on the Reaper's Haunt's menu, a comb carved from fish bone, and a bottle of wine.

Ser Danyal laughed and gave the helmet to his squire. “You should see what I won last year,” he said. “You'd be grateful to have a prize you can so easily transport.”

Francis nodded and stepped closer to take another look at the spoils. “That's a fine comb,” he noted. “It easily fits in a pocket.”

“Unlike the bucket of cockles I won last year.” Ser Danyal chuckled and lifted his arms to let his squire open the straps of the breastplate. “Or that huge, ugly fish you got the year before that.”

“It was mounted on a piece of driftwood,” Francis said. “Damn thing was as useless as it was heavy. Luckily I managed to sell it right in the harbor of Banefort to some sort of collector, though I didn't even get enough for a cheap whore from the sale.”

Beric quietly cursed as the drizzle turned into heavier rain once again. “Then why do you come back every year? It doesn't seem to be worth the long way.” He gave Leiff his breastplate and nodded toward the gate where Thoros waited with the soaked horse.

“For the feast and Lord Marsh's celebration,” Francis explained as the group hurried to the gate to find shelter from the incipient downpour. “He invites the three best of each competition in the evening. The best food and wine is served during that private event. And all the whores a man could want will be there, free of charge.” He knowingly grinned at Beric. “Those are wild ones, I can tell you. They do things no whore on the mainland would do, not even those in the black brothels of Oldtown. You won't be disappointed, I can promise you that.”

“There are rarely more than five competitors in the joust,” Ser Danyal added. “You are probably the most skilled this island has seen in eight or nine years. Usually we get dregs that are banned from most mainland tourneys. They are easily defeated and we always make it among the best three.” He made a futile effort at shaking the rain from his hair when they reached the gate. “Ser Teodor has no interest in winning. He used to be much better when he was younger and maybe he still is,” Ser Danyal continued. “Either the wine took its toll or he does it on purpose, who can tell? He never came close to the finals for as long as I know him and I've never seen him make a true effort to win.”

“Then why does he come here if he doesn't even get to attend that private gathering?” Thoros asked. “I saw him ride back to the village instead of returning to the courtyard. He doesn't even attend the public feast during the day.”

Ser Danyal chuckled and looked up to the sky in the vague hope the rain would cease long enough to get back inside the castle. “He's got a woman on the island,” he said. “And five or six bastards. Comes to visit them every year, brings toys for the children from the mainland and gives his woman what little he makes to get by.”

“I once heard he has a deal with Lord Marsh,” Francis added. “Don't know if it's true, but it might as well be. According to that, Ser Teodor agreed to making a fool of himself for ten years, reenacting the hubris of Lord Marsh's brother. In turn, Lord Marsh will allow him to wed his woman when the deal is complete. Rare thing to be granted to a man without Ironborn heritage.”

“If that's true, I hope the woman is worth it.” Beric pulled up the hood after Leiff had put the cloak on his shoulders, though it would do little to fend off the rain. “It was a shameful display, but an honorable cause might redeem him in the end.”

 

﴾ _____________________________________________________________________________________ ﴿

 

“Good to see you and your 'orse are still alive. Would 'ate to see a friend 'armed in a joust under such bad conditions. Did you win?” Anguy smirked at Beric's dumbfounded expression and didn't wait for an answer. “Oh, you 'ave a bottle with you, I bet you did.”

“Stop that!” Beric cautiously looked around before he sat down at the table. “The Ironborn will think you mock them! And take off that hood! Where did you even get it?” Leiff quietly laughed to himself and quickly left to take the horse to the guards when Beric shot him a reproachful glance. Thoros sat down and studied Anguy's outlandish headwear with amusement, but did not comment.

“Bought it from a fisherman,” Anguy replied, still grinning. “Cost me less than a night in the tavern.” He got up from his chair to show that the hood was attached to a jacket. “The sleeves are lined with rat fur, 'ere, feel it! I'd 'ave guessed it's from a seal!”

Beric didn't feel the rat fur, but Thoros did. “It's not as unpleasant as it looks,” he said when Anguy sat down again. “And your accent isn't that bad either. You might just pass as an Ironborn. If you were as pale as a dead fish's belly, that is.”

Anguy leaned over the table, closer to Beric, with a triumphant smile. “That's why I like 'im,” he said, nodding to Thoros. “He's got 'umor and it's as dry as the cunt of the crone. That's 'ow you mainlanders say, isn't it?”

“That is how a blasphemer says it.” Beric sighed and put his wine bottle on the table.

“Got nothin' to worry 'bout then, son,” Anguy unblinkingly retorted. “Me Drowned God don't care what I say 'bout your deities.” He eyed the bottle, then slowly glanced up to Beric with a daring smirk. “So you did win,” he concluded. “And that's your prize? Can I 'ave it?”

Instead of bargaining with the prize to make Anguy give up his annoying act, Beric just pushed the bottle closer to him. “Take it,” he said resignedly. “Thoros didn't want it.” Anguy's eyes instantly jumped to Thoros, regarding him skeptically.

“They claim it's wine.” Thoros shrugged. “But knowing this place, it could as well be whale oil or salt water that they just put in a wine bottle.”

Anguy took the bottle and inspected it closer. “I guess I'll find out,” he said, unconcerned and finally dropping his mock accent. “Is that all you won? Or was this meant as further insult to the first man who was unseated?”

Beric pulled the loose coins from his pocket and let them rain on the table. “Enough for the fried shrimp in the Reaper's Haunt,” he replied, sounding resigned and amused at the same time. “Or the smoked salmon, if I settle for the cheap wine. And believe it or not, but that's not the end of it. On top of all these treasures, I was also given a comb carved from whale bone.”

Anguy let out an incredulous laugh. “A comb? Are you serious? Let me see it.”

“Gave it to Leiff.” Beric vaguely nodded in the direction his page had gone with the horse. “It's probably not even whale bone, but I doubt his sisters will care.”

 

﴾ _____________________________________________________________________________________ ﴿

 

There were close to thirty archers and the number of competitors was not the only thing that set the archery event apart from the joust. They were celebrated like heroes by the excited spectators, far more than a dozen. It seemed the entire island and the visitors from several others had gathered to watch. Lord Marsh sat on his chair on a low, wooden stage. Behind him on the wall, a large banner with his coat of arms was displayed; the shape of a black bridge with its gate and towers against a greenish-grey field. And Lord Marsh did not sit alone on his stage. Lady Marsh, a scraggy woman with a haughty look on her face, sat next to him. They were surrounded by men with grim, sea-rugged faces; captains and raiders of the lord's fleet, Ser Danyal explained. On the foot of the stage huddled five women on simpler chairs. They were dressed well, not well as the lady, but Lord Marsh's salt wives still served as a display of his wealth.

Unlike the joust, the archery event also had a herald. To Beric's surprise, it was Nereon who he had not seen all day. As soon as he began to speak, it became clear that his task was not to make simple announcements. Instead, Nereon recited poems about the history of Ironborn archers, praised famous names and recalled their victories from the past.

“Those fishmongers sure love their archery.” Francis chuckled while the flaming speeches continued. He leaned on the fence around the archery range between Beric and Thoros; Ser Danyal, much taller and able to see over their heads, stood behind them. “But I'm not complaining. It always makes for good profits when so many of them place their bets.”

That immediately caught Thoros' attention. He reached in his pocket and pulled out the handful of coins Beric had given him earlier at the table. “I'm feeling lucky today,” he said. “Who's taking the bets? And what names hold most promise?” Beric shot him a reproachful glance, but didn't say anything about the intention of putting his winnings toward such unknightly pursuits.

“Yesha has a table set up by the large counter over there.” Francis pointed across the courtyard to a large, wooden structure with a grey awning. “My money is on Ivander Marsh, the lord's oldest son. He's been among the best for five consecutive years. Can't go wrong with him, if you ask me.”

“Among, that is the detail,” Ser Danyal interjected. “He never came in first though, only second or third. Jadran Pyke, on the other hand, won last year. I heard many speak of his victories on Orkmont and Old Wyk. He's a favorite for the first place, I can tell.”

“You said the same about Olyvar Goodfinn last year.” Francis laughed. “Cost you your handful of coins and then some.” He paused and turned back to the range to listen to Nereon. “We better hurry,” he then noted. “They are almost ready to start.”

“I'll stay here and watch,” Beric answered the unspoken question. Francis shrugged and quickly left, followed by Ser Danyal and Thoros. On the range, the archers dispersed and the first of them took their positions. Beric sighed when he spotted Anguy in the group that remained by the fence and saw that he still wore his forsaken jacket and hood.

 

“Didn't you win the joust?” Beric heard a much too sweet voice from behind. He had given up on all hope of getting any recognition for the victory; the Ironborn barely even acknowledged his presence. Maybe another visitor with a keener eye for skilled jousters had arrived on the Queensflame in the morning, he thought. He turned around to reply and was met with the sight of a woman dressed in grey leather and dark brown linen and she did not wear a whole lot of either.

“I did,” Beric answered, polite despite the woman's indecent dress. “Did you see the joust? I didn't notice you among the spectators.” Before she said anything, Beric's attention was drawn to his left. He felt a hand on his waist and suspected it might be a bold pickpocket, but instead a found a second woman, dressed much like the first. Confused, he stared at her for a moment, then his gaze wandered down to her hand. “What are you doing there?” he got out when she began to pat down the coat.

“Just bein' friendly, 'andsome.” She widely smiled and continued, completely unimpressed that she had been caught.

Irritated, Beric tried to step away from her reach, but that only brought him closer to the lass on his right. “Aye, see, he likes me better than you, Gisha,” the woman triumphantly proclaimed. She was pushed aside before Gisha could answer; a third woman scrambled for her place.

“You don't like Gisha or Fenyana, do you?” the new arrival purred in Beric's direction. “I'm the one you're lookin' for, isn't that true?” She playfully winked and Beric tried to pull back his arm when she reached for it. He didn't like this situation, not at all, and he became increasingly uncertain that politeness was the right way out. A quick retreat was a much better idea, one that would not escalate the emerging quarrel or draw too much attention. When Beric looked around he felt panic arise. By now, a crowd had gathered to watch the archery competition, a current rushing to the fence for a better view. People were pushing and shoving, making it difficult to get away in the opposite direction.

From the corner of his eye, Beric could see that a larger group of women in similar attire had taken position near where the waiting archers stood. They didn't approach any of them, but many put their heads together and whispered, discussing the men awaiting their turn. Reputable women did not act like this either. They made polite conversation, some liked to dance, others preferred to trade gossip with friends. The group by the archers bore no resemble to that, they more reminded him of butchers on a meat market, carefully selecting the fattest pig to slaughter. The realization what the larger gathering by the archery range meant struck him like lightning and it added insult to injury. They saw the archers as more lucrative targets. Only those who didn't think they'd stand a chance with so much competition stooped low enough to try their luck with the jousters.

“Excuse me, my ladies.” Beric still tried to brush the hands on his surcoat away, though he began to run out of politeness. “A friend is waiting for me by... by the betting table. I should...” He didn't get further and broke off in shock when he felt a pair of slender arms hug him from behind.

“He'll wait,” a lascivious voice whispered in his ear. “As you can see, I have three friends 'ere who can keep yours entertained while we're gone.”

Beric tried to escape the embrace, but his efforts were to no avail; the arms did not let him slip away. Maybe more force would have been appropriate, considering the circumstances. But there were still too many spectators nearby who might not take kindly to what they'd perceive as his aggression. The next best thought was to retreat forward; maybe the fence would be in their way and stop their hands from wandering under his coat. “He really isn't a very patient man,” he tried again, realizing the fence didn't stop them. “He hates drinking alone and will get quite angry!” The women continued their scrutiny undeterred, as if they had not even heard Beric's insistent words.

“This behavior is very unfit for ladies!” Beric still tried to wind himself out of the octopus' grasp, still without success. “You really should mind your manners in public! This...” All thoughts toward politeness were put aside a moment later; Beric flinched and the words got stuck in his throat. If these women were making sure he had money, they certainly searched in places rather uncommon for a purse. His hand shot down to firmly grab the wrist and pull the girl's arm out under his coat.

“Aren't you bored of those well-behaved ladies?” The girl laughed and shook her arm free from his grip. “Those prudish mainland damsels 'ave never even 'eard of the things I...”

“I am not interested! Leave me alone, I won't go anywhere with either of you!” Beric was far from polite, he was now barking orders, but they fell on deaf ears.

“Bet you're a knight,” one of women noted with a satisfied tone in her voice. “Never 'ad a knight before, they don't come 'ere very often. Always wanted to, I 'ear knights 'ave certain talents and...”

“You won't find out 'bout that today,” another woman harshly interrupted. “I saw 'im first! Of course he's a knight! Can't you see 'is fancy robes and the sword, you 'ideous cunt?” She almost violently tried to pull open the clasps of Beric's coat and he quickly reached up to hold them closed.

 

“Beric! There you are!” the sweetest voice Beric had ever heard called through the noise of the crowd. Over his shoulder, he could see Leiff approach, returning from serving ale to the guards and looking after the horse. Beric felt too relieved to see a familiar face to even consider lecturing Leiff about the improper way to address his knight. To his confusion, Leiff corrected the mistake by himself, though it still wasn't proper. “ _Ser_ Beric, I mean, of course. You're a knight, a real knight from Dorne, how silly of me to forget that.” The women slowed down their frantic search and quizzically exchanged glances. “There is a problem that needs your attention,” Leiff continued, then he paused and regarded the women. “Am I disturbing you?”

“No, no, not at all,” Beric hastily replied, still trying to shake the now resting hands off his coat. “What problem is it? I'll take care of it immediately.”

Leiff stared at his boots and sounded abashed when he answered. “The innkeepers will throw us out if we don't pay in the evening. They said they've been waiting long enough to see any coins and...” He hesitated. “And we don't have enough to pay. We could cover a day, but we wouldn't have any money left for food.” Beric stared at him in confusion, but did not interrupt. Leiff's blatant lies about their situation had caused some of the greedy hands to retreat and one of the woman turned on her heel to hurry away. “Yesha from the tavern has offered to buy the horse though,” Leiff continued. “It wouldn't be much; she said it's too old and too bony to have tender meat; she'd only have use for the marrow and coat.”

Beric cleared his throat and pretended to ponder that information. “Would it be enough for the room and something to eat then?” Playing along with this act had the desired effect; a second woman abandoned her search and pushed spectators aside, heading in the direction of the archers.

“Not the inn, exactly,” Leiff gave back. “We could probably pay to stay in the boathouse. You want me to go ask them again, cousin?” When the remaining two women huffed in frustration and hastened away, Beric let out a deep sigh of relief, followed by an incredulous laugh. “I know, I know, I didn't address you properly. _My lord,”_ Leiff added with an innocent smirk _._ ”But letting those harpies know you're a real knight or even a lord didn't seem the best idea, so...”

“You can call me whatever you want,” Beric cut him off, the relief still echoing strongly with each word. “Some situations require attention to formalities and that was not one of them.”

“I figured as much when I saw the blonde coming at you.” Leiff shrugged and threw a glance to the archers. “She was over with Francis and Ser Danyal before. Saw her emerge from under their table when I went to bring ale to the guards. Francis paid her, then she went to split the coins with a man standing hidden around a corner.” He chuckled and kept watching the archers, Beric threw a reprimanding glance at him from the side. “I thought it was funny how trusting they were,” Leiff explained his amusement. “On the way back I heard Ser Danyal complain that he could not find the dagger he kept in his boot.”

Instinctively, Beric reached for the hilt of his sword and found everything in best order. “Where did you learn about such tricks to begin with? White Harbor didn't strike me as a place where things like this happen.”

Leiff leaned on the fence next to Beric to watch the archers take aim. “People are wealthy in White Harbor,” he gave back. “Even the poorest find work on occasion. Loading ships, guarding cargo, cutting wood for the shipwrights. But Mole's Town by the Wall is a poor place.” He paused when the crowd roared at a successful shot. “It's where people go if they don't want to be found. Or if they are wealthy Southerners who want to tell a good story about the sights of the North.” He smirked at Beric's cautionary side glance. “I always told them to not show off their wealth and status. If people with little to lose find out there is money to make, they often try to get their hands on some coins in dishonorable ways.”

Beric swallowed and reached into the inside pocket of his coat, feeling if his purse was indeed where it belonged. “I recall,” he said. “Frankly, I thought you didn't want to be seen traveling with Southerners and that's why you told us to dress down and keep our mouths shut.”

Leiff laughed and nodded to Anguy who now took position. “That's nothing I ever worried about. But a good disguise goes a long way. If you were wearing a rat fur-lined jacket, you certainly wouldn't be harassed around here. You thought it's silly, but Anguy got that one right.”

“It isn't fit for a knight to dress in rags.” Beric brushed imagined dirt off his sleeves and straightened the coat.

“Of course not, my lord.” Leiff assumed a look of earnestness. “You looked very knightly indeed when you were pestered by whores.”

Beric huffed and playfully pouted for a short moment. “I was wondering if I should promote you from 'cousin' to 'squire' for the rescue, but keep talking like that and it will be an easy decision.”

“That would not be proper anyway,” Leiff solemnly noted. “A squire should earn his promotion with good service and valor.” He chuckled when Beric glared at him, not too happy his page lectured him about virtues. “Or do you really want to explain to your father how I earned my promotion? The alternative would be lying about it and that would not be knightly either.”

Beric sighed in defeat, but he nodded and smiled. “You have a point,” he admitted. “I'd rather not have this tale make it off this island, though I certainly think it counts as 'good service'.”

 

﴾ _____________________________________________________________________________________ ﴿

 

“I wish I had succeeded in talking him out of this.”

Beric glared at the small flask that had contained wildfire and now sat empty on the table. The Ironborn had a very different idea than the mainland of Westeros when it came to the melee. Above all else, there were no horses; that would have been enough to change all rules by itself. Swords were permitted, but so was everything else. In the fenced pit a few feet away, three dozen men had started the fight and there were almost as many different weapons. Harpoons, spears combined with bucklers or fishing nets, even a pitchfork could be seen in the chaos when Beric looked up. Bladed weapons came in all shapes and sizes; daggers, swords, curved scimitars from Volantis, falchions and axes, and weird, scythe-like blades the Ironborn had raided in distant waters.

“He's too drunk to see reason,” Anguy gave back. He looked gloomy under his hood and watched the chaos in the pit with discontent and marginal interest. “Or the prospect of the lord's private feast made a good motivation.”

“You have no reason to sulk.” Beric shot him a reproachful glance, then looked over to melee raging on. “You may not be used to it, but the odds were against you. And yet you still managed to come in at fourth place.”

“Fourth, exactly!” Anguy emptied his mug of wine to swallow his anger. “I should have poured down the entire bottle of that swill you won before my last shot. If I had aimed just a tiny bit better, I'd have my invitation to Lord Marsh's private feast.” The mug hit the table so forcefully it left a mark on the brittle wood. “Reminding me just how close I came won't cheer me up.”

“And I won't worry less about Thoros if you are this dismissive of my concerns.” Beric sighed and absently took his ale, but didn't drink, he just turned the mug in his hands. “He's used to sitting on a horse and clearly didn't consider how different it would be to fight on foot. Or the selection of weapons that would be allowed. Look at those spears! They exceed even longswords in range. And the nets, what if they catch on fire and...” He broke off when Francis and Ser Danyal returned with a tray of new drinks and sat down.

 

Ser Danyal appraisingly raised his brows when he looked to the pit and the remaining twenty or so fighters. “Thoros is doing well. I frankly didn't expect it.”

Francis nodded and took his wine from the tray, then put the remaining drinks on the table. “I thought he's as insane as they say. I've never seen anyone from the mainland dare to enter this fight. If he's not dead yet, he might just survive it.”

“Not dead yet?” Beric's head swirled around and he blankly stared at Francis. “What do you mean? It is 'last man standing', not 'last man alive', or am I mistaken?”

“They have strange rules around here.” Ser Danyal sounded unconcerned as he said it. “A dead man is defeated, that much is easy to see. But it is not how most men are eliminated.” He nodded to the pit and Beric looked back there, though a part of him didn't truly want to see what was going on. “Notice how they all pile up in the middle, far away from the fence?” It was a rhetoric question; Ser Danyal did not wait for an answer and continued. “Most of these men are high ranking sailors. Famous raiders, captains, first mates. Their crews wait on the fence until one of two things happens. If a man tries to leave the pit, the crew pushes them back into battle. It's...” He broke off and thought for a moment, then slightly shook his head. “Probably something about punishing cowardice, I never paid much attention when they explained it.”

“And what is the second thing?” Beric slowly asked, not turning around so Ser Danyal would not see how much he dreaded the likely answer.

“That would be seeing their commander cannot win this fight,” Francis casually gave back instead. “They respect strength and determination, but they also know when the booty is not worth the trouble. In the end, they value life higher than honor.”

“Most crews wait to the very last moment, as a show of their trust in their commander's strength and courage,” Ser Danyal added. “But once they decide he can't go on, they pull him out of the pit. With that, the fight is over for him and his reputation remains unscathed. It is proof of the crew's loyalty to chose their commander's life over loot. On the other hand, a crew that lets their captain die in the melee is looked down upon. The Ironborn think it proves they were unworthy of his leadership. These men will have a tough time when they sail under a new captain, if they ever do.”

Beric thoughtfully furrowed his brow, regarding Ser Danyal, waiting if he had more to say.

“I'm glad we have an easier way to get our invitations to the feast.” Ser Daynal leaned back and took a gulp from his wine. “Luckily, the fishheads don't care much for horses and would rather eat than ride them. Can you imagine the madness of them replacing lances with pitchforks and harpoons?”

Beric shook his head. This really wasn't something he wanted to imagine. Just as he raised the mug to his lips, he heard Leiff's voice call out for him and he froze. Leiff had been at the fence for a better view on the battle, but now he ran the short way to the table and he sounded alarmed.

 

“Lord Beric, I think Thoros is injured! There's blood seeping through the sleeve, it's his arm or his shoulder!”

Immediately, Beric jumped up and slammed the mug on the table. There was no time to think this through, no time or mind to ask if the same rules applied to men who weren't sailors. He drew his sword and rushed toward the pit. Thoros' drunk insanity would end now, if he liked it or not.

“Are you crazy, going in there?” Beric heard Ser Danyal shout from the short distance. _Maybe I am_ , he thought as he jumped over the fence, into the pit of harpoon-wielding terror. The moment his feet hit the ground and he saw two men, blocking his way to the flurry of flames raging behind them, he corrected his own notion. One of the men was armed with two long, jagged daggers. The other had a splintered shield on one arm and held a harpoon. _I definitely am_ , he told himself and attacked.

 


	20. Under False Colors

“Leiff, quick, take the sword!”

Beric had managed to drag Thoros to the fence and disarm him with a combination of surprise and sobriety on his part. And Thoros didn't like being removed from the melee by force, not at all. He loudly protested, fought to get free of Beric's hold and announced his intention to return to the throng of combatants even unarmed. Leiff ducked under a badly aimed punch to pick up the still blazing sword from the ground, then hurried to bring it to the corner where the horses were kept along with straw and buckets of water. Seeing it was not as dangerous anymore to approach, Anguy jumped up and joined Beric's efforts of moving Thoros past the fence.

On the other side of the pit, a very similar scene played out. There was a clamor of voices from two different factions; one trying to pull an unwilling captain toward the fence, the other cheering on his pursuer. Beric had no mind to pay attention to it. He was just glad his gamble had worked out. The Ironborn were very aware of Thoros' reputation as a madman; they all knew the tale of him storming the gate during the Siege of Pyke. A second foreigner jumping into a battle, one who didn't even care to wear armor, probably made them think the insanity was contagious. Once Beric had fought off the two men who had been in his way, no other combatants had tried to stop him. Reaching Thoros had been child's play compared to dealing with him when Beric got there. Drunk as he was, or maybe because of it, Thoros was still an outstanding swordsman and gave him a good fight.

With combined forces, Beric and Anguy finally managed to drag Thoros out of the pit he so desperately wanted to return to and bring him to their table. Maybe the sight of wine cups would distract him and calm him down enough to let them look after the wound. It did not. As soon as they heaved him on a chair, Thoros cleared the table with a swift sweep of his uninjured arm, sending mugs and cups flying, before he could be restrained.

“Stop it already!” Beric yelled and grabbed Thoros' arms. “You're bleeding! We shouldn't treat it lightly, it's your sword arm!”

Thoros tore one arm free and didn't give up his struggle. “I can still punch you! How bad can it be?”

Beric evaded the punch and tried to get the escaped arm back in his grasp. “That's the other arm, it's not injured! Now hold still and...” Thoros didn't and instead swung at Beric again, only to hit nothing once more.

Leiff came back from the corner, the sword still in his hand, but now extinguished. He put it down in a safe distance and offered to help.

“You can help indeed,” Anguy replied, giving up the attempt to remove Thoros' pauldron. “And so can you.” He looked at Ser Danyal and Francis who had both witnessed the struggle with amusement. “Hold him down, so Leiff can take off the armor.” The two men shrugged and got up to do as they were asked and Anguy turned to Beric. “And you come with me,” he said, grabbed Beric's sleeve and pulled him away.

 

Once they were hidden behind a corner leading to a barely lit tunnel, Anguy began to take off his rat fur-lined jacket and impatiently nodded to Beric. "Give me your coat. We trade places. You take Thoros to the inn and I go to the feast and claim I am you. That way you have your peace of mind and Lord Marsh will not be offended over one victor missing."

Beric stared at him in disbelief for a moment, not moving. “ _That_ is on your mind?” he then gave back with slight irritation in his voice. “Thoros is injured and you worry about the invitation to the damned feast?”

Anguy sighed. “By the teats of the Maiden, you really think you can fool me? You don't want to go and would only do so out of fear the host might be offended. That is why you're making a scene. To have an excuse.” He freed himself from the unruly jacket and looked at Beric again. “Don't tell me you can't see that Thoros' injury is barely a scratch.”

For a while, Beric said nothing, then he nodded in defeat. "Fine, you saw through me. But who is going to believe that you are me? We look nothing alike. I'm taller, your hair is darker and...” He broke off when Anguy shook his head and shot him a roguish smile.

"Everyone will be drunk at the feast and nobody paid much attention to us all day. I've looked like five dozen other men wearing jackets like this, my face was concealed by the hood. Lord Marsh only saw you on the horse and you were wearing a helmet. You think he gave any thought to your height or your hair?" He held the jacket out to Beric. “During the melee, the crowd was distracted and so was Lord Marsh. Not even Nereon paid attention to Thoros or you. They were all too interested in the dueling captains on the other side of the pit.”

Now Beric paused and thought for a moment, then he quickly began to open his coat. "But the guards will go with you," he said sternly. "It adds credibility and you have a habit of seeking out trouble. I'll sleep better if I know they'll keep an eye on you." Anguy nodded with an innocent smile and Beric handed his coat over, then took the jacket to put it on. "I'd tell you to not do anything I wouldn't do, but that probably defeats the purpose. So just enjoy your night as a noble and try to not draw too much attention."

 

When they returned to Thoros, Ser Danyal and Francis still held him on the chair, but Thoros put up less resistance. He still insisted he wanted to continue the fight, he now just seemed to think resorting to words might sway his captors. Francis explained to no avail that once eliminated, a man would not be allowed back in the pit, Thoros pretended to not hear that and kept talking. The distraction had allowed Leiff to remove the pauldrons and breastplate and he could now examine the blood-soaked sleeve. When Thoros saw Beric in the Ironborn jacket and Anguy, in turn wearing Beric's coat, he paused, did a double take and blinked. He blinked again, shook his head and mumbled to himself that maybe they were right, maybe he was too drunk to fight after all.

Beric's eyes met Ser Danyal's and for a moment, there was silence. Then Ser Danyal slightly nodded, acknowledging he understood the ruse that played out. "I'd do the same in your place if Francis was injured," he said with a stern look on his face. "It is only knightly to put a friend's well-being over a night of drinking."

Francis shot him a skeptical glance from the side, as if he was questioning Ser Danyal's sanity, but he didn't comment. “We'll play along,” he said instead. “Might be a fun thing to do, so why not?”

“Thank you.” Beric cleared his throat and continued with an air of importance. “It is more than just my concern about Thoros. I also think Anguy deserves the prize more than I do. I defeated only three competitors and Ser Teodor did not even try. Anguy faced ten times as many rivals and showed he can keep up with Westeros' finest archers. In comparison, he overcame greater odds and therefore the reward should be his.”

“Absolutely!” Ser Danyal fiercely nodded. “Humility is a virtue only few knights truly possess. It is very honorable of you to admit that Anguy's accomplishment is of higher value than yours.”

Francis rolled his eyes and left his post behind Thoros' chair. “Most honorable thing I ever saw,” he added, unimpressed and slightly annoyed. “We should mingle with the honored guests before the melee is over. There's a dozen men left and I do not care to wait for them to finish the fight before I get another drink.”

 

Beric watched Anguy disappear into the crowd with Ser Danyal and Francis, the two guards followed them a few steps behind. There was nothing to worry about, was there? Anguy could easily pass as a noble in the right clothes. He knew Blackhaven as well as anyone born and raised there. He had even listened to Maester Jeon sometimes and learned to 'talk like some lord', as Anguy put it. And unlike the other false knight, he had the right accent and guards that displayed a real coat of arms. No, there would not be a problem, Beric assured himself. No problem at all. He looked down to Thoros who swayed to and fro on his chair and examined the stump of a candle with drunken curiosity. Now this was a different story, Beric realized. The guards had left with Anguy and would neither carry Thoros back to the inn nor would they stay in the boathouse at night. “Get the horse.” Beric sighed and turned to Leiff. “I shouldn't stay here, so Anguy's identity will not be called into question by people who saw us together.”

"I sleep in the boathouse then?" Leiff asked when he returned with the horse.

“Aye, I doubt the innkeepers will let us take the horse to our room.” Beric had put Thoros' uninjured arm over his shoulder and laboriously pulled him up from the chair. “You don't sound like you mind,” he noted when Thoros finally had somewhat stable footing.

"The sellswords attend the feast, so the other boys stay in the boathouse as well,” Leiff explained. “They have a deck of cards. I can find out how much I learned about card games from the sailors.” He chuckled when Beric tried to put on a stern expression, but Thoros hanging on his shoulder didn't make it easy. “Don't worry,” Leiff added. “We only gamble for seashells. Neither of them has any money left anyway."

Beric sighed and reached into his pocket to pull out some coins and give them to Leiff. "Here. Go and buy ale and something to eat for the three of you then. I should have a talk with Ser Danyal tomorrow. It's not very chivalrous to leave a squire go hungry while his knight attends an elaborate feast."

 

﴾_____________________________________________________________________________________ ﴿

 

How this was possible, Beric never would know. Maybe the warlock possessed secret magic powers after all. Last night, Thoros had been more drunk than Beric had ever seen him before. He had almost fallen asleep on the short way from the bridge to the inn, hanging on Beric's shoulder. He had tried to fight over the wine Beric boiled to clean the wound, insisting it was a waste and Beric should let him drink it. He had protested when Beric bandaged the cut and he had made an attempt to get back to his armor while loudly declaring the melee still had to be won. And now, not long after dawn, he was as vivid and fresh as a spring morning, showing no signs of a headache or other ailment. He sat in one of the armchairs and changed his bandages while causally chatting about the last night.

Anguy, much to their relief, had been in one of the beds when Beric woke up. The guards had made it back in one piece as well, though none of the three was in Thoros' splendid condition. They were still sleeping and it would be a while before they'd wake up. Beric regarded Anguy and the black surcoat he still wore. It was not closed and had probably been drenched with as much wine as the stains on Anguy's shirt underneath it suggested. There was grease or something oily that smelled like fish on one sleeve and splattered candle wax on the other, but at least there didn't seem to be any permanent damage to Anguy or the coat.

“I hope I didn't punch you too hard.” Thoros got up from the chair and followed Beric around Anguy's bed to the small window that was not blocked by furniture.

“You didn't.” Beric chuckled to himself and leaned his arms on the plank that vaguely fulfilled its function as a window board. “You missed each time you tried,” he dryly added. Thoros jokingly pouted and stepped behind him, put his arms left and right of Beric on the window board and trapped him there.

“I missed on purpose,” he claimed and leaned over Beric to share the view outside the window. For once, it was not raining and the square with its well almost looked charming in the early light of the day. “I only meant to remind you I _could_ punch you, if I really wanted. But I didn't. Why would I punch my fledgling when he gallantly takes care of his dragon's drunk arse?”

“Of course.” Beric laughed. His gaze followed a lone hooded figure on the square, arranging rat furs on a rack. “Speaking of your drunk arse, how in the world did you recover that fast? Why are you not still as delirious as Anguy, Teryn and Yanic?”

Thoros smirked and grabbed Beric to pull him away from the window. “Practice,” he whispered in an ominous tone, though Beric could tell he was smirking. “And now let's look after Leiff and get something to eat.”

 

﴾_____________________________________________________________________________________ ﴿

 

“My head feels like a drawbridge came down on it.”

Ser Danyal grimaced in torment and lifted a hand over his eyes to shield them from the merciless sun. He had staggered out to the landing when Beric and Thoros had left their room and decided to look after his squire as well. When they set foot on the town square he began to regret it, but he tried to grin and bear the brightness outside.

“After seven years of attending the feast, I should know better and practice a little restraint.” He laughed, then suddenly paused. “My apologies,” he solemnly added. “I shouldn't rub it in your face.”

Beric shot him a quizzical glance. “Rub what in my face?”

“That you didn't get to enjoy the feast,” Ser Danyal replied. “You should come back next year to make up for it.”

“Oh, of course,” Beric quickly gave back, remembering he had to pretend he missed out on having the night of his life. “It is quite a long way from the Stormlands to Blacktyde though, so I can't make any promises for next year. But I'm sure Anguy will tell me all about the event when he wakes up.”

“If he remembers it.” Thoros smirked and took a pull from his bottle, earning Ser Danyal's incredulous stare.

“You are already drinking again at this early hour?” he blurted out in awe and disbelief. He stopped on the corner where the path leading down to the wharves and the boathouse began. The last house in the row cast its shadow over the square and gave his strained eyes a chance to relax. “My head aches if I even think about wine.”

Thoros chuckled and went the few steps back to the corner to offer the bottle to him. “It's not wine,” he said. “A secret recipe from Dorne that aids the recovery after long nights of drinking. It's watered down a bit, but a few sips should do.”

“Practice, I see.” Beric laughed and gave Ser Danyal an encouraging nod. “I don't know what exactly is in it, but I can attest that it works.”

Ser Danyal took the bottle from Thoros' hand and cautiously smelled the concoction before he took a swig from it.

“Just leave some for the others.” Thoros looked back to the inn on the other end of the square. “We have three more who will need it. And if your friends are lucky, there'll be a sip left for them.”

 

﴾_____________________________________________________________________________________ ﴿

 

A short walk later, past buildings left to the wrath of the weather and along the rocky coastline, the innkeepers' boathouse came into sight. It had a quaint, charming quality to it with its faded red roof and crumbling, white painted walls. Behind it, the wharves on the shore of the jagged peninsula looked more rugged. Exposed, dark wood, the paint long eaten away by the cold winds of the sea, black roofs that had been patched a hundred times over, with moss and lichen sprawling under the edges. Only a few fishing boats swayed on the waves washing around the narrow, long piers; some more were already at sea and visible as small, dark dots in the distance against the low morning sun.

It surprised Beric to see that one of the boys was already awake. Francis' brother stood in the half-open door of the boathouse. When he noticed the arrival of Beric, Ser Danyal and Thoros, his expression changed and he quickly went back inside. The short glimpse had been enough to let the approaching men know that something wasn't right. A moment later, Leiff and Ser Danyal's squire followed the third boy outside and confirmed the suspicion. All of them acted as if a prank had gone wrong and they were about to confess to a strict father when they lined up in front of the boathouse, suspiciously blocking the way to the door with their formation.

“Why the long faces?” Thoros tried to sound unconcerned to ease the tension, but it didn't work. The boys put their heads together, exchanged a few whispers, then Leiff stepped forward and cleared his throat.

“There has been an incident, my lord.” He cautiously peeking up to Beric as he spoke, but kept his head respectfully lowered.

“What kind of incident?” Beric inquired. “Did someone get hurt? Was something stolen?”

Leiff shook his head. “We are unharmed, my lord. And nobody stole anything. The horses are fine.”

Beric exchanged an irritated glance with Thoros who answered with a slight shrug. “Well then, what happened?” Beric turned back to Leiff.

"I heard someone enter, deep in the night,” Leiff began after taking a deep breath. “There is only one window in the boathouse and last night was a new moon, so I couldn't see much. At first I thought it was Anguy or that you sent the guards here after the feast.” He paused for a moment. “It was only one man and he went to the hammock where Bryn slept. That made me think it was Francis who came to look after his brother and I tried to go back to sleep.” Now Leiff briefly glanced back over his shoulder to Ser Danyal's squire. “But then the man went to Timoth. He slept by the window and I could see better there. The man gagged Timoth and tied his hands with a rope.” The two other boys silently nodded at Leiff's recount of the event. “Timoth woke up at that point,” Leiff continued. “I heard him struggle and try to scream through his gag. So I pretended to sleep and carefully reached for my dagger.” He broke off again and regarded Beric appraisingly.

“Don't be coy, kid,” Ser Danyal gave back instead. “Tell us what happened.”

Beric shot him a reproachful glance, but he nodded when he looked back to Leiff. “There was a fight, I assume?” he asked, calmer and less demanding than his companion's harsh tone.

“Not exactly,” Leiff replied. “When the man came to my hammock and searched for my hands to tie them, I stabbed him in the throat. He made a gargling noise, stumbled backwards and fell to the ground. It wasn't really a fight. I caught him by surprise."

For a short while, it was completely silent. Only the rushing of the waves and the mild ocean breeze revealed that time did not stand still.

“So he's dead then,” Thoros concluded, just to say something and break the awkward silence. The three boys nodded in unison. Beric looked bewildered and unsure how to react and Ser Danyal appeared to carefully think through the facts they had been given.

“The body is still in there?” Ser Danyal then asked. When he only got undecided shrugs and a slight nod for an answer, he went around the boys to the door and peeked inside. “Ah, there he is,” he noted matter-of-factly and went into the boathouse for a closer look.

“Bryn wanted to throw him into the ocean,” Leiff turned to Beric again. “I said we should wait and ask you what to do.”

Finally, Beric woke from his trance and quickly nodded. “Aye, I'm glad you didn't do that,” he said. “It was the right choice to wait for us. Lord Marsh needs to be informed of the matter and...” His voice trailed off and he glanced to Thoros. “...and what? I can hardly send Anguy in my place to handle this situation. He can fool drunk sailors during a feast, but he can't discuss legal matters.” Thoros wished he could come up with a good answer, but Beric was right. The Lord of Blackbridge had now seen Anguy and accepted him as the visiting knight from the South. Anguy could certainly spin drunken tales of his adventures, but putting Leiff's fate into his hands would be one step too far.

“Nothing to worry about.” Ser Danyal's confident statement made all heads turn to him when he stepped out of the door. “I remember this lowlife from previous visits. Offered rat furs and coins for my horse just a day after my arrival this year. The Ironborn don't look favorably on scum like him. Guess he decided to try paying the Iron price after the Gold price was rejected once more.” He slapped Leiff on the back and returned to Thoros and Beric. “You did well,” he added. “Trust me, Lord Marsh won't punish you for killing a fool who couldn't even stand up to a boy. He might even reward you.”

“That still leaves us with one problem,” Thoros said, now less concerned about the situation. “Somebody needs to bring this case before the lord and the maester of Blackbridge will attend such a hearing. I doubt Lord Marsh allowed his maester to get drunk last night with the rest of the pack. We'll be dealing with a man who not only is sober, but also well-versed in legal matters. Which Anguy is decidedly not. And we can't send Beric without exposing last night's charade.”

Ser Danyal shrugged. "Anguy won't have to say a thing. Just dress him up and I'll go with him. He made a good impression on Lord Marsh and this case is clear enough. Dead men make for awful testimonies and Timoth can confirm that Leiff did nothing wrong.” He laughed and looked over to Francis' brother. “And you woke up and witnessed the events as well." The boy nodded, Beric exchanged a pointed glance with Thoros, but didn't say out loud what went through his mind. Ser Danyal, still looking too amused for Beric's taste, eyed Thoros' bottle. “Don't worry about it. I'll handle this matter. I owe you a favor and a true knight always repays his debt.”

 

﴾_____________________________________________________________________________________ ﴿

 

Beric paced up and down in the room from corner to corner, briefly blocking Thoros' view from the armchair to the fireplace each time he passed by. Every once in a while he abandoned his route to stop at a window and impatiently stare outside. An hour ago, two of Lord Marsh's guards had crossed the square and taken the path to the boathouse, but they had not yet returned. Maybe they had just disposed of the corpse, maybe they had taken it to the castle by boat, maybe they merely waited for their lord's instructions after hearing the case. All Beric could conclude from the fact that the guards had been sent to the boathouse was that Ser Danyal, Anguy and the boys had seen Lord Marsh and informed him about the events of the night.

It hadn't been easy to convince Anguy to go in the first place. When Beric had woken him up, Anguy was still far from sobriety and could barely walk two steps without staggering into the nearest obstacle. Some swigs of Thoros' Dornish miracle cure had slightly relieved the headaches, but failed to induce a more sober state. After several attempts to explain what had happened, Anguy still had no idea what Beric was talking about and just insisted on going back to bed. At this point, Ser Danyal had taken a different approach. He had whipped the bottle out of Thoros' hand, slammed it against Anguy's chest and yelled at him to drink all of it and get a grip of himself. The sudden assault didn't sit right with Beric, but he neither had time to step in nor could he deny that it led to the desired result. Anguy drank the concoction without protest or further discussion and except for almost falling down the steep stairs, he could even walk without Ser Danyal's support.

 

“Finally!” Beric stayed by the window and leaned over the small table to get a better view. Thoros' gaze wandered from the low burning fire to the square. The delegation that had left to see Lord Marsh an eternity ago was on the way back. Anguy was talking to Ser Danyal, the three boys walked ahead and were chatting as well. The only thing a distant observer could gather was that they were not on the run from Blackbridge guards. It wasn't much to go on, but it was a good sign and that had to count for something, all things considered.

Beric tore the door open even before the returning men had reached the landing outside. Thoros, just as impatient and anxious to hear the outcome, was right behind him with a dart. Both relaxed when they heard Leiff and Timoth on the stairs, chatty and cheerful and not worried at all.

“Aye, but it was said in front of Lord Marsh. Maybe it wasn't your real knight who said it, but he can hardly take it back,” Beric heard Timoth say and skeptically furrowed his brow.

“I don't know,” Leiff replied. “The Lord of Blackbridge doesn't have a say in such matters. He may approve of it, but in the end, it's Lord Beric's decision.”

“What is my decision?” Beric stepped out of the doorway; all the impatience and anxiety was back in his voice. Leiff and Timoth stopped right in front of him on top of the stairs, both suddenly very silent when they realized Beric had overheard their conversation.

“I promoted Leiff.” Anguy smirked up from the stairs. “He's my... _your_ squire now.” Beric didn't answer to that, he just stepped aside to let Leiff and Timoth through and make room for the three other returnees to follow. “You told me to make the best of my time as a noble, so I did.” Anguy slowly staggered up the stairs, still grinning and waiting for a reaction.

“Aye, but I would frankly rather have told him myself,” Beric calmly replied. Anguy stopped again, now looking puzzled and Thoros noticed the same expression on Leiff's face when he entered their room.

“Are you serious?” Leiff turned around and regarded Beric appraisingly, trying to figure out if he was joking. “You're really promoting me?”

Anguy only moved again when Ser Danyal nudged him and almost made him stumble on the next step. “You're really promoting him?” he echoed in confusion.

“Aye.” Beric shrugged, as if he didn't understand why Anguy and Leiff didn't believe him. “Is it really that surprising?” he asked when there was still incredulous silence. “I've been waiting for a chance to do that since we visited Highgarden. What better reason than bravely defending my possessions from thieves in the night will I get?”

 

﴾_____________________________________________________________________________________ ﴿

 

It had looked like a storm was brewing on the distant, grey horizon when the Golden Harvest left the small harbor of Blackbridge, but instead it appeared the opposite was true. A day after leaving the island, a dead calm lay upon the ocean. There was nothing but smooth, silent water as far as the eye could see; Blacktyde lay behind them a day to the East, the coast of Orkmont was still two or three days away further South. All that broke the dreary monotony was a group of stark, craggy rocks, the largest barely big enough to be considered an island.

The crew grew more frustrated the longer the maroon sails hung limp on the masts, but all they could do was anchor out here and wait for the wind to pick up. Only Captain Burgess seemed unfazed and didn't abandon his earlier assessment. He still expected to run into heavy seas soon and ordered his men to prepare for the storm. But only the evening came and nothing else changed. The dead calm seemed to infect the ship, casting an eerie silence on the passengers and crew. Even Nereon had spared the captive audience from his outlandish noises and stayed in the captain's cabin all day.

 

It was early evening when Beric stormed into his cabin, slammed the door shut and leaned back against it as if an enemy had given chase outside on the hallway. For a moment, he stayed there like frozen in time, his face as pale as the ghost he had to have seen.

Thoros groaned and lazily opened an eye; the slam of the door had cut his nap short. He shot a glance to the hammock, found Anguy still sleeping and slightly turned his head to find the true culprit. “What got into you?” Thoros asked when he found him and noticed the gloomy look on Beric's face.

Beric didn't reply. Instead he looked around in the room as if he suspected his mysterious pursuer had somehow found a way in and lay in wait in a hiding spot inside the cabin. Puzzled, Thoros let his gaze wander around to follow Beric's, but all he saw was Anguy, buried under a blanket and peacefully napping in the hammock. Beric apparently drew the same conclusion and now came over to Thoros, careful to tread lightly and not wake Anguy up.

Thoros furrowed his brow when Beric crawled onto the bed next to him, grabbed the blanket and pulled it over his head. For a short while, Thoros just watched the bad disguise next to him, then his curiosity won. “That trick never works, you know?” he addressed the blanket. “I can still see you.”

The blanket grumbled something into the pillow and inched closer. “I know I'm not invisible.” Beric lifted his head enough to glare at Thoros. “But I better find a trick that works before we get back to the mainland.” He paused and swallowed before he offered an explanation to his behavior. “I went to the captain's cabin to thank Nereon for not exposing our ruse during the feast. Nobody was there, but I found a scroll on the table. A scroll with the words to Nereon's new song.”

Thoros grimaced and laughed. “That's indeed reason to worry,” he gave back. “We better pray that it won't be finished during our journey and we'll be spared from hearing him sing it.”

Beric sighed, lowered his head into the pillow and pulled the blanket over it again. “I pray it will never be finished,” he mumbled. “I read it before Nereon came back, fell over me like an angry shadow and tore the scroll from my hand.” He peeked up to Thoros from his hideout. “He said it was meant to be a surprise for me and he'd show me once it was finished.”

Thoros smirked and snuck his hand under the blanket to stroke Beric's head. “Maybe it won't be as bad as his other songs if you were his inspiration. And if it is bad, just humor him and say you like it anyway.” He chuckled when Beric's cheeks flushed and he immediately and decidedly shook his head.

“There were no names in it,” Beric mumbled into the pillow. “When Nereon saw I had read it already, he explained it's to keep the song relevant in years to come.” He shot a brief glance to Anguy, then inched closer to Thoros to whisper even more hushed in his ear. “All the audience would need to know is that the song's hero was a Southern knight who came to the Iron Islands.”

Thoros stretched out one arm to let Beric use it as pillow and reached for his wine with the other hand. “Don't be too disappointed,” he said. “Not many Southerners travel there. It's not as bad as a song about events in King's Landing, where it could be about anyone.”

Beric strongly nodded against Thoros' arm. “That's why I worry. With only a handful of Southerners, it's easy to guess whose tale the song tells.” He glared up as if he had just been sentenced to serve at the Wall. “Nereon said he was so drunk during the feast that he had to ask Anguy what happened.”

Thoros laughed. “I bet he made up the wildest stories. He wouldn't miss the chance to embellish the tale when he's asked to help write a song about his own deeds.”

“That is the problem!” Beric quickly adjusted his volume after these words. “Embellished or not, he was pretending to be me. And Nereon assured me he plays along with that claim.”

“Good.” Thoros took a pull from his bottle and offered it to Beric, but it was quickly declined. “Lord Marsh won't be any wiser even if he ever hears Nereon's song.”

“How is that good?” Beric raised his head to stare at Thoros in disbelief.

“How is it not?” Thoros shrugged as best as he could. “That was the point of the plan, wasn't it?”

Beric rested his chin back on Thoros' shoulder and inched close enough to whisper in his ear. Thoros listened and chuckled, but did not interrupt. “ _That's_ what Anguy told him,” Beric finished and slowly exhaled to calm himself down.

Thoros took another swig from his wine and glanced down at the bundle of nerves next to him. “Well, I can't blame him. It's better than the name suggests. You can take my word for it.”

“You once told me you don't remember your name after nine cups! How can he even walk after sixteen?” Beric gasped and glared at Thoros, demanding an answer.

“Aye, I told _you_ ,” Thoros explained with an air of importance. “Anguy told a _minstrel_. That means I can hold seven in and Anguy probably drank four.” Beric glared at him for a moment longer, then he swallowed, leaned over and whispered again. Thoros listened intently, nodded a few times and sipped from his wine. “What a curious competition,” he then noted. “If he aims his stream as well as his arrows, I'm sure people were impressed by that display of skill.” He took another pull from his wine and ignored Beric's reproachful stare.

“That wasn't all.” Beric took a deep breath and looked over to Anguy, making sure he was still sleeping. When Thoros just looked at him, waiting to be told the rest of the story, Beric nervously gestured for the wine. Thoros gave him the bottle and let him drink, then put it back on the bedside table. Beric swallowed hard and looked around for hidden eavesdroppers once more. When none could be found he leaned closer to Thoros to reveal the rest of the tale in hushed whispers.

Beric didn't emerge after recounting the song's last verses. His face stayed half buried on Thoros' shoulder, a futile attempt at hiding the flushed cheeks. Thoros had to bite his lip to not laugh out loud, as he had already done while listening several times. When he didn't say anything, Beric carefully peeked up from his hideout, his eyes demanding a reaction.

“That is the end of the song?” Thoros asked, as casually as he could muster. Beric quietly nodded, his cheeks still red as a lobster. “Well, it does say you're good at it, doesn't it?” Thoros bit his tongue when another nod came as answer. “What's wrong with it then?” He slightly shrugged and ruffled Beric's hair. “There are certainly worse things to be known for. Like being bad at it.”

Beric blankly stared at him for a moment, then lowered his head in defeat. For a while he lay there and remained silent. “It isn't knightly to be immortalized in a ballad titled 'The Naughty Knight's Lance' and become known for such dishonorable pursuits,” he mumbled resignedly. “Maybe that's my punishment for the charade at Blackbridge.”

Thoros almost laughed out loud at the title, but he gathered himself. He shifted a bit and stroked Beric's head to calm him down, though it didn't help much. “The ballad is not about _you_ , it's about Anguy. You know you didn't act dishonorably. I know my fledgling was a paragon of virtue even under such difficult circumstances. Your squire knows it. Anguy knows it. That's what really matters, isn't it?”

“And what good does that do?” Beric turned his head for a long gloomy glare. “The song might become popular. People might hear it and realize it's about me. My reputation would suffer regardless among other knights.”

“Or the ballad will raise your reputation among the ladies.” Thoros smirked and Beric's face dropped back into the pillow with a sigh. “I'm joking, my lord.” Thoros leaned over and put a kiss on the back of Beric's head. “It's Nereon Krakensong we're talking about. Nobody will hear that ballad. People don't listen, they run away when Nereon sings. Now if it was a poem...” He broke off when Beric looked up with a hint of a smile.

“Don't you dare to give him any ideas.” Beric sounded less gloomy now, but very insistent. “Maybe you're right and nobody will ever listen to a song long enough to hear of the Naughty Knight's not so noble deeds.”

 

“Did you say 'Naughty _Knight_ '?”

Beric froze when he heard Anguy's voice, Thoros looked over and saw Anguy sit up in the hammock with an irritated expression.

“How can he mix that up? He's Ironborn!” Anguy, suddenly wide awake, jumped out of the hammock and stomped to the door. “Where is he? Still in the captain's cabin?” Thoros quietly nodded and smirked to himself, Beric still didn't move. Anguy stopped by the door and forcefully tore it open. “That's probably the only song that will ever honor my various talents. Nereon better get it right when I have just this one chance to be remembered by generations to come.” He didn't close door when he rushed out and Thoros and Beric heard him mutter to himself on the hallway outside. “Mix up 'knight' and 'archer'! How hard is it to tell those two words apart?”

 

﴾_____________________________________________________________________________________ ﴿

 

The storm Captain Burgess had predicted came at night. Shortly after Anguy had brought his complaint before Nereon, the swell woke from its silence and rocked the ship to and fro. On the way to the common room Beric and Thoros had felt a drizzle falling from charcoal clouds in a dark purple sky. When they went back to the cabin, only one hour later, the drizzle had become a heavy downpour and a cold, biting gale whipped it under their hoods. Captain Burgess had paid a visit to their cabin at an unusually late hour to urge his passengers to stay under deck. Nobody had any intentions of going outside and face the harsh weather nor did they find much sleep during the night. The storm raged and howled, waves crashed against the Golden Harvest and before Beric finally managed to fall asleep, he was certain that he even heard thunder.

The storm subsided as suddenly as it had started. In the morning, only a light drizzle fell from the last rags of dark clouds and a good wind filled the ship's sails. By noon it felt as if there had never been rough weather at all. The sky was clear and almost looked friendly, the blue just a bit paler than it would be in the South. Every man on board of the Golden Harvest was accounted for and Captain Burgess estimated they'd reach smoother waters in less than two days.

“Well, if _you_ are happy with the ballad now, that's all that truly matters, right?” Beric looked up from the scroll Anguy had proudly given him to read. Nereon had indeed changed all instances of the word 'knight' to 'archer', though the rest of the song was the same as it had been the day before. Ever since Anguy had found the scroll outside their door in the morning, he knew no other subject and watched his treasure with a keen eye.

“Of course I am!” Anguy plucked the scroll from Beric's hand and stored it in his belt. “Everyone at Blackhaven will envy me!” Beric smiled and shook his head in disbelief; it was easy to see how relieved he was at this outcome. “And you can't deny that a ballad written by a famous minstrel is a better memento than your meager winnings from the joust!” Anguy let himself fall backwards into the hammock. “Did you at least keep the coins?”

“No. Gave them to Thoros to wager on you,” Beric replied. “And since you came in fourth place...”

Anguy huffed and brushed the comment away with a vague wave of his hand. “What is money compared to a ballad? Nothing! I bet you are jealous as well and just won't admit it.”

Beric got up from the bench and nodded. “Terribly jealous. Please don't tell anyone, I'd hate to be reminded of it on every corner,” he gave back with a chuckle. “I should tell Nereon though. I'm sure he'll revel in glee if I admit I find the one song he dedicated to you...” He hesitated and thought for a moment. “...at least coherent. That's high praise coming from an 'uncultured layman' and I owe him that much.”

“Good luck with that.” Anguy adjusted the pillow under his neck. “I've been looking for him all day and couldn't find him.”

Beric shrugged and opened the door. “He's probably in his 'private cabin', wherever that is. I'll ask the captain to send for him. My admiration for his musical talent may be limited, but I should thank him for acting as our guide. And for entertaining us with his stories in the evenings. At least some of those were not as bleak as the music.”

 

﴾_____________________________________________________________________________________ ﴿

 

The cabin door stood open when Beric arrived. Captain Burgess sat at his table and waved him in without looking up from his charts. Beric stayed by the door and looked around, waiting for the captain to finish his studies. Nereon's instrument did not lean on the wall anymore, he noticed. For a moment, he strained his ears and tried to pick up the strange noise in the distance to make a guess where Nereon's hidden quarter was. All he heard was the yelling and chatter of sailors and the constant rushing of water, so he abandoned the effort when Captain Burgess looked up.

“I'm looking for Nereon Krakensong,” he said. “Nobody has seen him all day and he told me to ask you, should he be in his private cabin.”

Captain Burgess regarded him thoughtfully and absently unrolled another sea chart. “I can't help you there,” he gave back after a brief silence. “I don't have a clue where he went either. All I can tell you is that you won't find him on this ship.”

“What do you mean by that?” Beric looked puzzled, then he gasped in shock. “Are you saying he went over board during the storm? Did anyone see it happen? Why wasn't I told?”

“As I said, I have no answers for you.” The captain sounded strangely calm and contemplative. “I went to see him last night to tell him the same thing I told you, but I couldn't find him. In the morning, I was informed that a life boat is missing. And all of Nereon's belongings are gone as well, except for this...” He reached under a chart and pulled out the peculiar brooch Nereon had worn. “It sat on my table when I woke up, along with a note.”

Beric furrowed his brow and stepped closer to look at the brooch. “What does the note say?” he inquired.

“It was a request to give the brooch to Ser Eldrion Thorncliffe when I return to the Arbor. The note said Nereon no longer has use for such constraints. That he wants his friend to have something to remember him by when the time has come and he has to go home.” Captain Burgess shrugged. “I don't know what he means by that, no need to ask.”

“It sounds like Nereon planned this if he took his belongings and left a note,” Beric thoughtfully concluded. “But where did he go? Where is 'his home'? There's nothing out here.”

Captain Burgess shrugged again and got up from his chair. “In all my years at sea I learned that some questions won't ever be answered.” He made a step toward Beric, now looking more stern. “You just have to accept that and stop asking them.”

Beric was about to say something, but he didn't. Captain Burgess' expression and posture made very clear this this conversation was over, so Beric just nodded and left. He told Thoros, Anguy and Leiff about the strange circumstances of Nereon's departure when he returned to their cabin and all of them pondered what happened, to no avail.

 

The winds were favorable on the way back to Oldtown and the Golden Harvest reached the port of the city almost two days earlier than expected. None of the sailors had ever spoken a word about Nereon during the journey and sometimes Beric wondered if the minstrel had even been real.

“Maybe they are all glad to be spared from the music. They are afraid to summon him back from the depths if they speak of it,” Thoros jokingly suggested.

“Maybe this is a different crew and the men who were with us on the way to Blacktyde stayed in Seagard,” Leiff tried to make sense of it.

“Obviously, they are just as jealous as you that Nereon's ballad doesn't mention them. They don't want to be reminded that nobody will ever write songs about them,” Anguy insisted.

 _Maybe the old man from the inn was right_ , Beric thought. _Maybe the islands were really not for him and 'his kind'._

 


	21. Lions On The Foothills

“I can't stand Lannisport.” Loras rolled his eyes when a servant placed a decanter with wine on the table and his eyes met a carved lion, adorning the stopper. “If you think we're obnoxious with golden roses at Highgarden, this place will change your mind about it for sure.” He sullenly glared at the half-empty wine glass in his hand. “Their wine is no match for ours either. Bet they got this swill from the Riverlands or it's some cheap import from Dorne.”

“I haven't seen much of the city,” Beric replied. “But I agree, this wine is rather unpleasant. Leiff?” He turned around and handed his squire some coins. “See if you can find something else.” Leiff nodded, took the coins and left toward the merchant stalls in the shadow of a large, golden statue portraying a lion in repose.

Loras absently sneered at the decanter and put his glass on the table. “You don't miss much,” he said. “There's golden lions everywhere. If you have seen one, you have seen them all.” Beric's gaze followed Loras' to the merchant area and the statue. “Golden lions on the tourney grounds,” Loras continued. “Golden lions on every gate and every corner of every road. Even the privies have golden lion head doorknobs. Makes you wonder if House Lannister is trying to compensate for something.”

He chuckled and flicked his finger against the glass, not strong enough to topple it over. “I'm glad we met on the way. I'd hate to be stuck here with no company but those conceited buffoons.”

“Will Lord Renly not arrive with the king's party?” Beric moved the wine glasses and decanter aside to make room for the jug of ale Leiff brought back to the table.

“Stannis claims he is needed in King's Landing.” Loras huffed. After quickly looking around, he took his wine glass and poured the content into a flower pot behind his chair. “Give me some of that ale, too.” Leiff nodded, filled Beric's glass and then poured the rest into Loras'. “Everyone has a good excuse,” Loras continued with unveiled annoyance. “My sister volunteered to help at an orphanage, just so father couldn't contest her refusal to travel with me. She found reasons to stay away from every single event where Ser Elyor might be and the most prestigious tourney of the Westerlands is no exception.”

Beric chuckled, took a sip from his ale and found it more pleasant than the sour, red wine. “Maybe your father will finally get the message and ban Ser Elyor from Highgarden.”

Now Loras seemed more amused than annoyed. He, too, tried the ale and had no complaints about it. “I can't blame her for staying at home,” he said. “But I can envy her the luxury to have a wealth of excuses.” His glance drifted across the tourney grounds where knights and their parties occupied other tables, browsed the merchants' wares or stood in small groups to chat and trade gossip. “And here I am, surrounded by men who wish they were me, while I wish to trade places with my sweet sister. Orphans are not as dull as half of these toadies.” He laughed, toasted to Beric and took another sip. “Next round is on me. I better keep my only friend in this place well entertained.”

Beric shot him a skeptical side glance. “Your only friend?” he echoed. “I doubt that. You are much admired throughout the realms. There have to be at least a few knights who like you.”

Loras shrugged and wrinkled his nose. “Not here,” he gave back, matter-of-factly. “Last year I unseated Ser Jaime at this very tourney. A few months after that, I defeated Ser Dustyn and broke his streak in the Westerlands. Would have been his twentieth victory if he hadn't faced me. You don't make many friends that way.” He laughed and poured down the rest of his ale. “And I don't need to tell you about the Reach knights groveling for my approval.”

“They didn't say a word to me on the way,” Beric noted. He emptied his glass and reached for the jug, only to find it empty as well.

“Get us two or three of these,” Loras turned to his squire. “Of course they were silent.” He looked back to Beric. “They envy you, too. You are all they wish they were. You're very successful on the lists, wealthy, handsome, heir to a Great House. And you have manners.” He laughed and threw his purse to his waiting squire without turning around. “You have the freedom to do whatever you want in this world. Even I envy you for that part.”

Beric chuckled and shook his head. “There's no need for such flattery,” he said, laughing. “Look around. There's nobody here to lure me away from your table. I'd stay even if you said I resemble a troll from Flea Bottom.”

“I'm not flattering you, I'm stating facts.” Loras regarded him with a serious expression. “Some suspect our father wants Margaery to wed a man with true skill in combat. That's why Ser Elyor doesn't give up his pitiful pursuit. He thinks he has an edge over Renly there. But he knows he's no match for you, that's why he acts like an arse. To make himself look better in comparison, he just can't fool anyone. He's still the second son of a minor house nobody cares about when all is said and done.”

For a moment, Beric thoughtfully regarded Loras. “You really think that's the reason? I never even spoke a word to your sister when Ser Elyor and his cousin began their campaign against me. And I had only won a few smaller tourneys, nothing of note.”

Loras looked stumped, but not for long. “Perhaps they saw you as competition for the attention of a different lady then,” he gave back. “My sister is not the only woman alive.” He smirked and flicked his empty glass again, this time succeeding in making it fall. “And certainly not the only one who would prefer you to a boor like Ser Elyor.”

Beric was still not convinced, but the undeterred flattery left him flustered. “Your sister doesn't strike me as someone who only cares about a pretty face,” he said. “She...”

“No, she doesn't.” Loras chuckled and picked up his glass when his squire returned with three jugs and set them down on the table. “But unlike Ser Elyor, you know that much about her. And I know Margaery's taste, at least when it comes to men.” He waited for his squire to fill the glasses, then drank a sip and threw a side glance to Beric who just looked at him in confusion. Loras smirked and put an arm around Beric's shoulder to pull him closer. “Women? I have no idea. Margaery jokes she's so dutiful she makes up for my lack of interest,” he added, now more quietly, but still amused. Beric didn't answer, he just stared at Loras for a little longer, then quickly lifted his glass and emptied it. “You poor, pretty thing.” Loras laughed and slapped Beric's back. “My apologies, I thought Renly told you. You came to Highgarden, expecting to find the 'Heart of Chivalry' and now I'm telling you it's a cesspool of sin.”

“That is between you and the Seven,” Beric gave back after he had sorted his thoughts. “It is not my place to judge. But I begin to see why I've been called dull for years...”

“What happens behind closed doors doesn't make you interesting,” Loras firmly cut him off. “It's the deeds you can openly talk about that people admire you for. Even if you only won a comb at Blackbridge. It takes guts to go to a place like that and even more to come back victorious. That's what a knight should do. Go out into the world and seek adventures. The more you accomplish out there, the more envy you face. It's as simple as that.”

Beric smiled and reached for the jug to refill his glass. It seemed rather unlikely that every single knight in the Reach and the Westerlands was burning with envy for him and maybe Loras' confidence was misplaced. But even if Loras cast a too wide net with his judgement, it was also a refreshing thought that the ridicule of men like Ser Elyor was born out of a feeling of inadequacy.

“Maybe you're right and I put too much weight on their opinion of me.” Beric undecidedly pushed his glass around on the table, watching the ale slosh around from the movement.

“Maybe?” Loras laughed, poured down his ale and gestured for the jug. “Look around.” He took the jug when Beric gave it to him and filled his glass. “Over there, Ser Tylar. Might be his last tourney this year; he's old and has nothing to show for the years. Lived his entire life in the shadow of his more renowned relatives. And there's Ser Allon, with renown of his own, but only for being a drunkard and bragging with his family's money. Ser Ristard of Oxcross who was only knighted to not embarrass his lover's family. They gave him a title and hastened the wedding so the girl's child would not be born as a commoner's bastard.” He toasted to Beric and took a swig from his ale. “You think they shun you, but if you look closer you'll see in truth they are eaten by envy. I've dealt with it all my life and you better get used to it, too. It will always be lonely at the top.”

“It won't be as lonely today.” Beric smirked and stood up from the table. Loras regarded him quizzically, then his gaze followed Beric's across the tourney grounds and his expression lit up as well.

 

﴾ _____________________________________________________________________________________ ﴿

 

The royal party was bigger than it had been on the way to Highgarden and it was certainly meant to make an impression. Four white cloaks stood out among the knights, riding close to King Robert on his richly adorned, ink black horse. Two stayed in front of His Grace and led the procession, Beric recognized them as Ser Barristan Selmy and Ser Mandon Moore. The other, Ser Jaime Lannister and Ser Boros Blount, at least Beric guessed it was him, flanked the two horses that followed the king.

The tourney in Lannisport was one of the few occasions the royal couple attended together and there was no big mystery as to why that was the case. The queen's father, Lord Tywin Lannister, had his seat at Casterly Rock, the impenetrable fortress overlooking the port city from the coast of the Sunset Sea. He insisted on his daughter's presence at the Westerland's biggest annual event, celebrating the victory over House Greyjoy that had been won here. It was likely Lord Tywin had also ordered her to bring her oldest son, Prince Joffrey, this year. The boy was eleven or twelve now and Thoros had mentioned there was talk among the king's advisers. It was about time the prince got accustomed to public appearances, it was not kingly to cling to his mother's coattails and Queen Cersei coddled him too much for his age. The king was easily swayed to not listen to such council; he cherished every day he spent far away from his wife. But Lord Tywin did not take no for an answer. If he wanted his grandson to leave the golden cage of King's Landing, the queen's wishes meant nothing at all.

Prince Joffrey was accompanied by the tallest of the men in the party, even in the saddle Sandor Clegane's height stood out. His impressive appearance was enhanced by the understated, plain armor, leaving his helmet, resembling a snarling dog, as the only point of attention. Underneath, everyone knew, a more gruesome sight lingered. Pock marks and burn scars covered the right side of the face, Clegane's head was half bald and barely hid the stump that had once been an ear. The disfigurement was not owed to battle, if the hearsay about it was to be believed. The older Clegane brother, Ser Gregor, had forced Sandor's face into a brazier when they were children, for no bigger offense than stealing a toy.

Behind the royal family, knights and lords followed. Beric recognized banners from all over the Crownlands; House Massey of Stonedance, House Rykker of Duskendale and House Celtigar of Claw Isle, among others. King Robert I. Baratheon certainly wanted to make a show of force when he visited Lannister lands.

 

﴾ _____________________________________________________________________________________ ﴿

 

“Am I glad to see more cheerful faces.” Thoros pushed a chair out of his way to Loras' and Beric's table. “Those five days on the Gold Road are the five longest days of the year.”

Loras waved his squire over and ordered him to find a third glass, then got up to greet Thoros, but Beric got there first and flung his arms around Thoros' neck. “I won't ever complain about your drinking songs again,” he blurted out.

Thoros laughed, surprised and a bit puzzled, but he returned the embrace. “Those must have been two dull months without me,” he noted.

“Anguy is driving me crazy,” Beric explained. “He only knows three songs and none of the melodies match that awful ballad Nereon gave him.” He leaned his head on Thoros shoulder in defeat. “Doesn't stop Anguy from trying to sing it, day in and day out.”

“Maybe you should gift him a flute for his name day,” Thoros suggested and shot a glance to Loras over Beric's shoulder. “And what are you snickering at, Knight of Flowers? Are we making you jealous?”

“A little.” Loras laughed and returned Thoros' glance with a daring spark in his eyes. “But it would take a heart colder than mine to begrudge your young love.”

Beric lifted his head, undecided which of his friends he should glare at. Both chuckled, so he decided to just change the subject. “Did you get my father's letter?”

“I did.” Thoros placed a kiss on Beric's forehead. “And I accept. I will take your hand in marriage.”

That made the decision of who to glare at much easier, though Beric could hear Loras laugh out loud. He grumbled and let go of Thoros to return to the table. “So you will accompany me to the Vale?”

“Of course I will.” Thoros smirked and went around the table to ruffle Beric's hair. “I'd go anywhere with my loving betrothed, you should know that.” Beric pouted, but before he could retort, Thoros reached into his pocket and turned to Loras. “Speaking of which...” he quietly said and covertly handed Loras a sealed scroll. “Lord Renly sends his regrets for his absence.”

Loras slightly nodded and slipped the scroll into his pocket. “What's in the Vale?” he then asked. “I haven't heard of any tourneys.”

“It's a family celebration,” Beric replied. He was about to explain further, but instead he paused and got up from his chair, as did Loras. King Robert was approaching their table and he looked upset.

“Now look at this!” the king rumbled. “The Red Priest is encroaching on my bloodline again!” He ignored the mumbled greetings from Loras and Beric and kept glaring at Thoros. “We have not fought this out yet! Don't act like you already won!”

Loras shot a confused glance to Beric whose whispered attempt to reply was drowned out by Thoros' voice. “Aye, but my victory is inevitable,” he retorted, smirking at the king. “As you can see, I have brought allies this time. House Tyrell declared for my side. Keep bugging me about 'your' heir and you get a rebellion!”

“His heir?” Loras whispered to Beric, still dumbfounded, but chuckling. “I don't think your betrothal is going to lead to the result Thoros aims for.”

“What did you just say?” His Grace leaned over the table, pushing glasses aside and through sheer luck not knocking them over. “Betrothed?” He stood up straight again and stared at Thoros with a daring glint in his eyes. “You're pulling tricks like that on your king and think you can get away with it?”

“Of course, Your Grace.” Thoros crossed his arms and grinned. “I have the numbers, why would I not get cocky?”

Beric slowly turned around to Thoros with a roguish smirk. "What if Ser Loras is here to betray you? It's Lannisport, that's how politics are done here. You said so yourself."

His Grace regarded him for a moment, then he slapped the table, roaring with laughter. “Thoros, I yield!” He took the jug and raised it to a toast. “Even in a snake pit like this you lead the way to solace and humor.” After a swig from the jug, the king slammed it back on the table. “But I'm not here for my amusement. I have a serious matter for you to attend.” He appraisingly regarded Beric and Loras, then nodded over his shoulder to the gate where another party arrived, yellow banners with three black dogs streaming in the wind.

Beric and Loras vaguely nodded, though they could not see more than the banners with the king blocking their view.

“Ser Gregor fucking Clegane”, His Grace continued. “He'll compete in the joust and the venomous witch I married will fawn over his prowess. Tell my son he'll become a great warrior like Clegane, where a good wife would reserve such praise for her king.” He huffed and leaned closer to Beric and Loras. “Whichever of you defeats that lumbering creature will travel back to King's Landing with me. Brag all the way about the victory for my wife to hear; that's an order. When that is done, we'll feast for a week in the Red Keep and celebrate that the Mountain crumbled today."

A daring smile played on Loras' lips and immediately disappeared when his gaze wandered to Ser Barristan Selmy, standing a few steps behind the king. His Grace glanced over his shoulder to see what seemed to bother Loras, then he leaned far over the table and whispered, as if he was revealing the crown's best kept secret. “I know, I know. He defeated the Mountain before. But he's not very good at bragging. That would just ruin the fun.” He laughed and lifted the jugs one after another to see which still contained ale. “Great warrior, but sometimes he's just too humble for his own good.” When he found a jug that was not empty, the king opened it and took a large swig.

Loras' smile returned, but before he or Beric could answer, His Grace turned to Thoros and regarded him furtively, as if he saw him for the first time. “You,” he then sternly said. “You'll knock the other Clegane off his horse for good measure. I recall you did so in the melee on my name day three years ago. The memory always makes me smile and needs some refreshing.”

“As you wish, Your Grace.” Thoros took a slight bow, then nodded over his shoulder to the table where Leiff sat with Loras' squire and the guards from Blackhaven and Highgarden. “You should also know that Lord Beric promoted his page and the boy will compete in the squires' competition later today. Do you wish him to defeat anyone in particular as well?”

"I wish, I wish, but that means very little here!” The king shot a snide glance to the nearest lion statue. “Lady Lancel's kin won't allow it. And I can't argue with them. As much as it pains me to say so, they are right. Wielding swords just isn't a fitting pursuit for dainty maidens." He turned to Beric and regarded him with furtive eyes. “You just have to remind me of that, don't you? Your squire is a skilled Northern swordsman and mine is a prissy maid too dumb to cut bread. And you can't resist rubbing it in your king's face."

"Guilty as charged, Your Grace, I admit it,” Beric solemnly replied. “I traveled far and wide in the North and gathered every boy under sixteen just to find the one that would spark the most envy. I promoted him for no other reason than to have Thoros pose this question today."

The king snickered, quiet at first, then he laughed louder. "I can respect such dedication to spite your king, Lightning Lord.” His amusement immediately faded when his squire came closer.

“Your Grace, Lord Tywin is waiting for you,” Lancel breathlessly informed the king once had had arrived at the table.

His Grace let out an annoyed sigh and sent Lancel away with a lazy wave of his hand. “Remember your orders,” he said as he turned to leave. “I want to see both Cleganes in the sand today.” He stopped after a step and glared at Beric. “And you better be careful. Keep talking like that and I might just seize that squire of yours and leave you with Lancel next time we meet.”

“See?” Loras triumphantly smiled and leaned back when the king had left the table. “I told you we face envy wherever we go. Even the king is not above it!”

 

﴾ _____________________________________________________________________________________ ﴿

 

“Studying the competition?”

Thoros' armor hit the fence with a loud clank when he leaned against it, as if to announce his arrival to Beric.

“Aye, I better prepare for tomorrow,” Beric replied, sounding amused. “You know, I've never seen Ser Gregor in a joust. I've heard of him, of course, but this is the first time I've seen him in person.” Thoros thoughtfully regarded him from the side and didn't say anything. “He's been sitting with Lord Tywin all day,” Beric continued. “He only went to put on his armor a short while ago. I thought his brother is tall, but Ser Gregor has to have the blood of a giant.”

Thoros took a deep breath and put his arm on Beric's shoulder. “You have never even seen the Mountain fight?” he slowly repeated.

Beric nodded and shrugged. “I'm going to see him now. The last tilt for today pits him against Ser Silvane of Kayce and it should begin soon.”

“Have you ever fought a man that heavy before?” Thoros cautiously inquired, though he was fairly certain he already knew the answer to that.

“Ser Lelio Amadas maybe,” Beric gave back after thinking about it for a moment. He gestured for Thoros' bottle and drank a swig when it was handed over. “You're drinking ale?” he then noted and shot Thoros an incredulous glance from the side.

“The wine here is dreadful. Even the expensive ones, I tried them all.” Thoros took back his bottle and pulled Beric some closer. “And Ser Lelio is a head shorter than you. His weight doesn't get close to the Mountain's,” he added in a more serious tone. “He's just fat and his lack of height makes him look even fatter.”

“What are you trying to tell me?” Beric turned slightly to Thoros to look at him with furtive eyes.

“That I'm worried,” Thoros calmly replied. “You shouldn't take it so lightly. The Mountain is unlike any man you've faced before.”

“Oh, I see.” Beric's brow furrowed with anger. “You doubt my skill, is it that?” He tried to shake off Thoros' arm, but Thoros didn't let him.

“I doubt your experience. If you knew the first thing about Gregor Clegane, you wouldn't be so carefree.” Thoros pulled the bottle away when Beric tried to reach for it. “I'm not joking!” Beric crossed his arms and leaned on the fence, deliberately ignoring Thoros. His eyes followed the herald who now took position to announce the last tilt of the day to the king. Thoros sighed and leaned closer to Beric. “I know you are good at this. We both know that,” he said with a softer voice. “This isn't about talent or valor, you have plenty of both. But neither can prepare you for a force of nature like Gregor Clegane. He's a beast without honor and...”

“And what?” Beric abruptly turned his head to glare at Thoros. “What should I do, in your opinion? Tell the king I'm afraid, forfeit my spot on the lists and leave all the glory to Loras? Have you told him the same?”

“I have not.” Thoros sighed again and offered Beric the bottle in an attempt to prove his peaceful intentions. “I worry about any man who fights the Mountain. But Loras has the experience to put my mind at more ease. He has seen Clegane fight more than once and is prepared for...”

“So you _are_ suggesting I should leave it to Loras.” Beric wrinkled his nose at the bottle Thoros still held out to him and turned back to watch Ser Silvane ride before the king.

Thoros struggled for words; that was exactly what he was suggesting and he now saw Beric would have none of it. “What if you get injured?” he tried to put a different spin on it. “How would you ride to the Vale with broken bones and bruises?”

“With the king's respect, that's how!” Beric snapped back. “His Grace thinks I do have what it takes, so why would I make a fool of myself by refusing? I'm not...” His voice trailed off when Ser Gregor stopped his horse only a few feet away to bow to the king. “...afraid,” Beric finished, though he didn't sound too convinced by his own words anymore.

 

The Mountain That Rides, people called Gregor Clegane and if anything, this nickname was an understatement. He was close to eight foot tall and looked even more enormous on the back of his horse. The sooty grey stallion had to possess supernatural strength to not collapse under the weight of this colossal rider. Beric had found his stature imposing before Ser Gregor had been clad in heavy armor, but now that he wore it, he more resembled a fortress than a man. His helmet matched that perception, it was plain and completely covered his face, with narrow eye-slits like the embrasures of a tower. The armor was dark and plain as well; a giant like this had no need for embellishments to emphasize his prowess. Only the tabard, bright, egg yolk yellow with three snarling dogs, looked out of place for its vibrant color.

 

“Fuck.”

 

This barely audible, awe-struck whisper was the first time Thoros had ever heard Beric use such a word and it was certainly a very appropriate time to break with more well-spoken habits. He still stared when Ser Gregor turned his horse around to take position, not saying a word, but inching a bit closer to Thoros.

“Come, step back a bit.” Thoros said and tried to pull Beric away from the fence. He found no resistance this time, Beric didn't protest and quietly followed Thoros to a nearby table. “Clegane is known to ride unruly horses. Not for the challenge, he's probably stronger than any stallion. He just likes to have a convenient excuse for 'accidents' that tend to happen.” Beric slumped down on a chair and looked up, not sure he wanted Thoros to tell him about details. “Not that a cripple would dare to complain,” Thoros said and sat down. “It's just curious how those unruly mounts seem to target hands, elbows and shoulders when they 'accidentally' trample over unseated opponents or only happen to break out of the barriers in spots where people gather.”

 

Ser Silvane was held in high regard by House Kenning and many considered him to be in his prime. He had been knighted when he was only fifteen years old; a reward for his valor during the Greyjoy Rebellion. Ever since, he had made a name for himself by competing in tourneys all over the realms. Beric counted him among his toughest opponents since Ser Silvane had almost ended his victory streak in the Stormlands at Grandview. Such worries were foreign to a man like the Mountain. Ser Silvane was by no means a small man; as tall as King Robert and almost as burly. Yet Ser Gregor brushed off the charges as if he was shooing an obnoxious pet that was too eager to play and he didn't move an inch in the saddle.

The tilt ended after only three passes and Beric finally breathed out, relieved that Ser Silvane got up on his own and left the list before any 'accidents' happened. Beric hadn't said a word since the first charge. He had sat there like a statue, stared wide-eyed to the lists and slightly flinched whenever the two jousters clashed. Now the spectacle was over and he slowly woke from his trance, though he still didn't speak. He gestured for the bottle and hastily drank when Thoros handed it over.

 

“You are not spared any envy today.” Loras smirked and let himself fall onto a chair, his squire and Leiff followed him, carrying bottles. He laughed when he noticed Beric's vacant expression. “Your marvelous squire found a merchant who sells decent wine,” Loras explained. “No wonder King Robert wants to steal a boy with such talents from you.”

Beric slowly looked over to him, then to the squires as they put cups and bottles on the table. “Oh. That is... good.” He sounded distracted and not especially enthusiastic, but he tried to pull himself up. “I am indeed very lucky to have such a squire.”

“We all are,” Thoros added, more firmly. “I was getting tired of this ale.”

“And I'm getting tired of being pitted against old men and clumsy oafs.” Loras waited for his squire to fill his cup, then raised it to a toast. “To my victory over Ser Ristard of Oxcross! The Westerlands have never seen a finer display of skill!” He clinked cups with Thoros and Beric, drank and regarded the latter with a slight sneer. “Except, of course, every other tilt they've seen today. You were lucky there, too, to draw a real opponent. Now Ser Dustyn won't talk to you anymore either.”

Beric shrugged undecidedly and sipped from his wine. “He didn't talk to me before I unseated him. I don't think I'll miss out on great conversations with him in the future.”

Loras playfully pouted and glared at Beric over the rim of his cup. “That is all you have to say about being the victor in one of the most exciting bouts of the day? I thought we were friends. You could at least pity me for being stuck with child's play.”

“Maybe the gods just wanted to rile you up for tomorrow,” Thoros turned to him. “You'll face Lord Severyn Fiore, if I'm not mistaken. He's had quite a streak in the Riverlands and in the Vale.”

“He's betrothed to a daughter of Walder Frey!” Loras let out a sardonic laugh. “It's all he's been talking about for several months now. His sweet Lady Mayda, that's where his thoughts are. Their wedding is coming closer and with every day passing, his mind moves further away from the lists.” He took a sip from his wine and leaned back. “I think he could have done better in a tilt against Ser Elyor. Defeating him should really not take that long.”

“He did defeat him nonetheless,” Thoros gave back. “And it was a very clear victory in the end.”

Loras sighed and waved for his squire to refill his cup. “I guess so,” he said, watching the wine being poured. “At least it was amusing to see Ser Elyor fall off his horse.” He looked up to Beric who quietly sloshed his wine around in the cup instead of drinking it. “And if all else fails to amuse me tomorrow, I look forward to seeing you pay Ser Lilias back for his behavior at Highgarden.”

 


	22. In Bloom

“Maybe there is a trick to it.”

Beric lay on his back and stared up at the flickering shades under the ceiling of the tent. Thoros took a bottle of the good wine Leiff had found from a chest, went the few steps to Beric's sleeping place and sat down on the edge.

“Maybe he's afraid of red feathers and if I change the plume on my helmet, he'll run away screaming,” Beric continued. “Might just run in the family to be afraid of common things people don't usually fear.”

Thoros shook his head and ran a hand through Beric's hair. “If that was the case, don't you think someone would have figured it out in all those years?” Beric shot him a brief, reproachful glance, then looked back to the ceiling.

This was not the first idea Thoros had dismissed since they had returned to the tent and if Beric was honest, he couldn't blame him for that. His suggestions how to defeat Gregor Clegane had become increasingly far-fetched and absurd in the past hour or two. Paying a witch, wherever one might be found on such short notice, to put a curse on the Mountain. Getting him drunk with strong spirits from the shadier taverns down by the harbor. Distracting him and his horse by shining bright lights at them from odd angles, by rearranging the abundant golden lion statues near the lists. None of it was more promising than Beric's attempts to winkle a strategy out of Loras, but at least pondering witches and golden statues didn't reaffirm how dire this situation truly was.

During that conversation, Loras had deconstructed every hint of a strategy Beric had had on his own. Had run down all the things he had tried in training, his position in the saddle, where to aim, how to offset the Mountain's advantage in weight and height. Had explained why which approach failed or how Clegane would counter in the next pass. Yet the bleak odds only seemed to spur Loras' determination and he was convinced the two years he had trained for this challenge would soon pay out. “Last year I felt ready,” he said. “And I got so close! But then Ser Barristan defeated Clegane before I could face him and all my preparation was for naught.”

At that point, Beric had quietly admitted to himself that his prospect of fulfilling the king's wish was close to hopeless. If there was a chance he could beat the Mountain, unprepared and with vague hearsay advice, it would come down to dumb luck, nothing else. There would be no unwitting savior for him either. Ser Barristan would face Ser Jaime Lannister in the next round and the victor would then be pitted against Loras, should he defeat Lord Severyn Fiore as he expected, of course. Beric's next opponent was Ser Lilias, after which the Mountain would very likely utterly destroy Ser Allon Cadwell and advance to the next round.

“Then what should I do?” Beric turned to Thoros, his eyes silently demanding a miracle. “I can't let Ser Lilias win on purpose. If I lose to him, no friendship with Loras could save my reputation. I'd be laughed out of the Reach for all days to come.”

“I know, my lord.” Thoros sighed and opened the wine. “Though I doubt you'd increase your standing with the Reach knights as a dead man or a cripple.”

Beric just glared at Thoros for a moment, then turned his back at him to stare at the wall. “At least promise you will not burn my body,” he mumbled into the pillow. “Give me a proper burial and stand vigil for me.”

Thoros took a pull from the bottle and shot a skeptical glance to Beric. “I don't think it would be proper for a priest of R'hllor to...” He broke off and a smile flashed over his face as the embers of stray thoughts ignited a wayward idea.

“It's proper if I say so,” Beric defiantly gave back. He rolled over again and inched closer to Thoros. “My father won't object. He loves the stupid tea you bring him so much, he won't tell you to stay away. Not even from his only son's funeral.”

“You are not dead yet.” Thoros took another pull from the wine, then put the bottle on a chest next to the bed. “Who knows, maybe Ser Allon will unseat the Mountain and you won't have to face him tomorrow.” He turned around to look at Beric and was met with a doubtful glare.

“Ser Allon,” Beric slowly repeated. “Unseat the Mountain.” He shook his head and rolled his eyes. “And you called the suggestion of having a witch curse him absurd.”

Thoros chuckled and stroked Beric's head. “He did make it through the first tilt unscathed and he'd certainly have the element of surprise on his side. It might just be Ser Allon's lucky day.”

Beric quietly grumbled into the pillow. “Aye, how can I doubt his good fortune after the victory over Ser Tylar, a dotard as old as the Crone?” He peered up to Thoros from the corner of his eye. “If the gods truly abandoned me in favor of a drunk braggart, disgrace awaits either way. Should Ser Allon defeat me instead of the Mountain, you may burn me. I won't leave my soul to gods that make a jester their champion.”

“You know, that's the closest I came to making a convert in years.” Thoros laughed and leaned down to put a kiss on Beric's temple. “But I have a feeling the Red God favors Ser Allon as well.”

 

﴾ _____________________________________________________________________________________ ﴿

 

“You just won't run out of luck, will you?”

Loras looked up to Beric with a daring spark in his eyes.

“Are you saying luck is what brought my victory over Ser Lilias?” Beric gave his helmet and shield to Leiff before he dismounted the horse and made a step toward Loras. “The audience seemed to disagree with that notion.”

Loras smirked and took the cup of wine from his squire to drink a quick sip. “I'm saying you're awfully close to doing what Ser Barristan did to me last year. Don't take it personally, but if you defeat Clegane and I don't get to face him, I'll break your streak at the first chance I get.”

Beric swallowed and turned around to let Leiff open the straps of his armor. “At least you get your revenge on Ser Barristan this year,” he tried to hide the anxiety Loras had kindled. “And Ser Allon will face the Mountain before me. Maybe he'll win and I won't be to blame.”

“Ser Allon!” Loras scoffed and laughed out loud, almost spilling the wine in his hand. “He's been prancing around, showing off his new armor and bragging about the cost of his horse. It's only noon, but he has already been mistaken twice for King Robert's fool since his arrival.” He poured down the wine and gave the cup back to his squire. “If Ser Allon defeats anything, it's his father's fortune. Even his own drinking habit is a challenge too big for him.”

“I had no idea a simple thing like an oyster could look so pompous, until I saw Ser Allon's new shield.” Beric looked around while Leiff took off his breastplate. He spotted Ser Allon surrounded by a small crowd near the biggest of the lion statues, easily recognized by his bright orange and grass green tabard. “But who knows, maybe it will be his lucky day,” he added, hoping Loras could not hear how much he wanted this to be true.

“Thoros seems to think so.” Loras chuckled and nodded to a larger, much angrier crowd on the other side of the statue, near King Robert's chair. “But he's either not very good at reading the flames or his god has no clue about jousting.”

Beric's gaze followed Loras', but all he could make out among the gathered people were two white cloaks of the Kingsguard. Ser Jaime Lannister and Ser Mandon Moore tried to calm down the clamor of disgruntled voices, but the crowd was too far away to understand what upset them so much.

“What is going on there? And where is Thoros? Did he not watch the tilt?” Beric turned back to Loras to get an explanation.

“Thoros did watch,” Loras gave back, still chuckling. “He's over there, hiding behind the Kingsguards. The mob is angry because he predicted the wrong winners and encouraged people to place the wrong bets.” He took a few steps toward the crowd, then stopped and turned around, waiting for Beric to follow.

Beric stayed where he was and quizzically regarded Loras. “He thought Ser Lilias would beat me? He bet against me?”

“Aye, and against me.” Loras seemed amused by that and it only confused Beric further. “Wagered quite a sum on Lord Severyn's victory and after he lost that bet, Thoros put the same amount on Ser Lilias and a little less on Ser Jaime. He was very convincing about those predictions, so people followed his example and lost their bets as well.” Still puzzled, Beric finally moved and caught up with Loras after a few steps. “I have to give it to him, even when he lives up to his reputation as a madman, he's smart about it,” Loras added.

“What is smart about making those bets? He lost them all.” The voices of the crowd grew louder as they came closer and now Thoros emerged between the two Kingsguards, apparently to argue with the people he had angered.

“He put the exact same amounts on Ser Lilias and Lord Severyn,” Loras replied with a chuckle. “Damn wizard really doesn't want us to know in which of us he has more faith.”

 

﴾ _____________________________________________________________________________________ ﴿

 

“Calm down, calm down! Nobody will get any money back!”

Ser Jaime stepped forward in an attempt to scatter the crowd. For a man who had just lost a tilt against a fellow Kingsguard an hour ago, he seemed to have trouble keeping a straight face. There was a barely visible smirk on his face and a similar expression could be seen on King Robert as he watched the turmoil from his seat. Ser Mandon, on the other hand, did not let on his thoughts about the situation. He stood there like a rock, stoically blocking Thoros from the people he shouted at, not moving an inch, not blinking his eerie, dead eyes.

“It's your own fault!” Ser Jaime continued his attempt to chase off the mob. “If you hadn't listened to a foreign priest, you'd still have your money! Since when do you place so much faith in visions a madman claims to see in the fire?”

“I'm not claiming anything!” Thoros interrupted. “Maybe I misread them a little, I admit that, but this time I got it right, I promise! Place your bets on Ser Allon Cadwell and you will see your purses filled again! I've never had a vision this clear in my life!”

“You're as insane as they say!” a man from the crowed yelled back and many around him strongly nodded in agreement. “Not one of your predictions came true! If you see those victories in your visions, it is evident now that they mean bad luck!”

“Enough with this foolery!”

King Robert had risen from his chair, a horn filled with wine in one hand, gesturing for the third Kingsguard, Ser Boros Blount, with the other. His thundering voice had the desired effect; the clamor died off in an instant and all eyes rested on him. For a long moment, His Grace glared down to the crowd, then he broke the silence.

“Where is the fucking herald?”

The herald, a tall, blond man in a crimson red coat, hurried to take his position in front of the king's seat while the people gathered around Thoros and the Kingsguards finally scattered and returned to the spectator area. Satisfied, the king sat down again, leaned back and took a swig from his horn, awaiting the announcement of the round's final tilt.

Loras and Beric went over to Thoros after the Kingsguards had taken their place by the king's chair once again. Only Ser Jaime briefly waited and exchanged a quick glance with Thoros, making sure he didn't need further guarding. “They don't take it personally,” Thoros answered the unspoken question, quietly laughing to himself. Ser Jaime nodded and turned to step onto the wooden podium where King Robert impatiently glared down to the list.

“Neither do I,” Ser Jaime gave back with a smirk. “Any other day and your god would have been right. There's no shame in a loss to Ser Barristan, so I wouldn't even resent you if the 'curse' was real. Now if you had made me lose to Ser Prester in the first tilt, that would be a different story, but...”

“Where is the striped baboon? Did someone take him back to the menagerie? Why am I still waiting for the fucking joust to begin?”

Ser Jaime paused when the king roared in anger, then shrugged apologetically to Thoros and returned to the podium without finishing his thought.

“What are you doing?” Beric asked, not looking at Thoros, but searching the lists for a glimpse of the 'striped baboon'. Ser Allon's brightly colored cloak should have been easy to spot, yet all Beric's gaze found was the imposing sight of Ser Gregor at the end of the list, whereas nobody was waiting to charge on the opposite side.

“Just providing His Grace with entertainment,” Thoros nonchalantly gave back. He, too, seemed to be looking for someone, but it wasn't anyone he expected to see on the lists. His glance wandered across the spectators instead, down the fence of the list to the merchant stands in the distance.

“His Grace doesn't look entertained,” Loras dryly noted and he certainly had a point. There were whispers on the podium now, ranging from upset to anxious, and the agitation quickly spread to the audience ranks.

“Wine!” His Grace angrily shouted over the hushed voices around him. “Now! Or I make you take that coward's place on the lists!” He had barely finished his rant when his squire scurried down from the podium like a scared squirrel on the run from a wolf.

 

“Not so fast.” Thoros quickly grabbed Lancel's arm.

“Please, His Grace will have me beheaded if I don't bring the wine right away,” Lancel stuttered. Both Loras and Beric shot Thoros a reproachful glance, but before they could say something, Thoros smirked and nodded to the other direction. Leiff made his way through the crowd, carrying two jugs of wine, as they could see once he cleared the scramble.

“There's the wine, right away.” Thoros took one of the jugs from Leiff and thrust it into Lancel's hand. “Now tell His Grace I need to talk to him.” Confused, Lancel stared down to the jug in his hands, but he nodded and darted away to the podium.

“If that oaf doesn't show up soon, I'll take his place.” Loras had turned around and leaned on the fence, staring down the list as if he was making a challenge, though Ser Gregor was too far away to see it. “What a coward to forfeit such a chance!” He looked to Beric. “So much for Ser Allon defeating the Mountain. It appears you Stormlanders made it your lives' mission to stand in my way. Last year, it was Selmy. This year, it's you. Maybe next year, Old Mary Mertins will face Clegane!” Beric swallowed, struggling to come up with an answer, but before he found one he heard the king's voice behind him, much closer now; His Grace stood next to Thoros.

“Now look what you did.” The king didn't sound quite as angry anymore; there was slight amusement in his voice when he spoke to Thoros. “You scared off my fool and held up the tourney.” He took a swig from his horn and approvingly raised his eyebrows. “Now what needs my immediate attention, old friend?”

Beric exchanged a quizzical glance with Loras when they saw Thoros and the king retreat to a more secluded place in the shadow of the large lion statue. They couldn't hear a word over the clamor of voices from the crowd lining the fences; confusion had changed into annoyance by now. All they could do was watch and guess what the conversation was about and the subject appeared to be them. The king listened intently to Thoros, appraisingly regarded Beric and Loras across the short distance, nodded and took a sip from his horn every once in a while.

 

﴾ _____________________________________________________________________________________ ﴿

 

 “...and to be honest, Your Grace, you might not get what you're after. I'm sure Beric would feel obliged to stay in King's Landing, but his mind would be in the Vale and his boasts might fall short.”

King Robert thoughtfully nodded and drank from his horn. “It's Ser Aydan Rainborn's celebration, you say? Good man, I always look forward to see him on the lists,” he gave back. “And my Hand speaks very highly of House Rainborn as well.” He took another swig and regarded Loras and Beric for a while. “Wouldn't be very kingly of me to cause animosity between my heir apparent and a loyal Knight of the Vale, would it?” Thoros quietly nodded and waited. “And Ser Loras, he's in a good form today, wouldn't you say?” His Grace absently added.

“He is, Your Grace,” Thoros said. “And it goes beyond his showing on the lists. If you want boasts and bragging, you'll get it from him. He's been talking about nothing but his desire to defeat Clegane since our arrival, even before you put a bounty on such a feat.” He opened the jug and offered to refill the king's horn. “Ser Loras also mentioned he plans to purchase a new sword from Tobho Mott after this tourney. He'd ride to King's Landing either way and seeing a smith won't take much time away from a feast.”

King Robert listened and watched the wine being poured into his horn. “And since the coward fled from Clegane and let him advance without a fight, a new draw is more than justified,” he said, his voice now firm and determined. Thoros nodded again, but His Grace paid no attention to him anymore. He waved for his squire and took a large swig from the wine. “Find Selmy!” he said when Lancel arrived by his side. “Tell him there'll be a new draw for the next round.” The boy hastily nodded and was about to run down the lists, but the king grabbed his arm and pulled him back. “This wine...” His Grace leaned down and glared at his squire. “It's delicious! For the first time in your life, you did something well!” Lancel stared at him as if the king had grown a third eye on his forehead, utter disbelief and shock on his face. “Why are you still here?” His Grace roared before Lancel stood a chance to process the unexpected praise. “Go and find Selmy, I said!”

 

Loras and Beric respectfully lowered their gaze when King Robert walked toward them, followed by Thoros. “There's a change!” the king cheerfully declared. Slightly puzzled, they looked up again.

“A change?” Loras echoed.

“That coward still didn't show up,” the king explained with an air of importance. “Ser Gregor has to be declared victor without having fought. Therefore, the next round requires a new draw.” He slapped Loras' shoulder and gave him a stern look. “I trust the gods will favor a man so eager to fight,” he said, then glanced to Beric. “And you give my regards to Ser Aydan, and Jon Arryn's as well.”

Both Beric and Loras still stood there like struck by thunder when King Robert strode back to his chair on the podium. Thoros smirked; the contrast in their expressions couldn't have been any greater. There was a spark in Loras' eyes, brighter and more daring than it had been all day and he barely held back a triumphant grin in a weak attempt at appearing composed and stoic. Beric, on the other hand, looked like his champion had just won in a trial by combat and saved him from a public beheading for treason.

“Can't argue with the king.” Thoros chuckled and took a swig from his jug. “He's right, we should leave this to your gods. R'hllor doesn't seem to have a firm grasp on jousting.”

 

Without Thoros' meddling in the betting, the audience had trusted their own judgement again and wagers were almost evenly split for the last day of the joust. The new draw King Robert had ordered had, unsurprisingly, resulted in different pairings for the penultimate round. The interest of the spectators had not been diminished by this at all. On the contrary, the announcement of the two bouts was met with even greater excitement, each of a different kind. Where the 'clash of generations' of two men from the Stormlands inspired self-proclaimed experts to peacefully discuss how Beric's style differed from Ser Barristan Selmy's, the debates about the second tilt quickly got heated. Most westermen were certain Ser Gregor could not be defeated by a man as nimble and young as Loras Tyrell. In contrast, visitors from other realms were not so sure about this prediction and argued the Mountain would fall on the very next day. Only a few wagers were made by neutral bystanders who voiced no strong opinions and merely wanted to show their loyalty to the king by taking his side. It was easy to gauge where His Grace stood on this matter. His bannermen from the Crownlands had placed high bets on Ser Loras' victory and made no secret of their pick. Just before the melee began, a sellsword from Rosby had told Thoros with unveiled amusement that even Sandor Clegane had bet against his brother, though he had been less public about it.

 

﴾ _____________________________________________________________________________________ ﴿

 

The third day of the tourney had started out with the archery competition, followed by a performance of mummers Thoros took very little interest in. He was not alone with this sentiment; the audience eagerly awaited the semi-finals and the bookmakers saw more attendance than the mummers' stage. Everyone knew the tale of the victory over the Greyjoys at Lannisport, but the two announced bouts of the joust promised something exciting and new. The novelty and the waiting had a welcome side effect. Thoros' divine predictions from the previous day were long forgotten and the anger about lost bets had faded with the memory as well. As amusing as the spectacle had been, Thoros was glad he could watch the much anticipated joust in peace.

He chuckled to himself when he saw Beric return from the tents by the end of the lists. There was a spring in his step and his smile was bright enough to light more than one dark, terror-filled night as he made his way along the barrier toward Thoros.

“Did something happen in your tent, Lord Sunshine?” Thoros smirked when Beric joined him on the fence, shot an enraptured smile at him, then absently regarded the empty list. “You don't look like you lost a tilt, you look like you lost your maidenhood to a courtesan from Braavos.”

“Ser Barristan said I was a worthy opponent,” Beric replied in an almost comically dreamy tone. “That we made the Stormlands proud tonight. That he thinks I have a bright future on the lists. Defeat has never tasted sweeter to me.”

Thoros laughed and gave Beric a one-armed hug. “You're never that bashful when I praise your skill. Should I be jealous of Selmy? Have I served my purpose, now that he took notice of you?”

Beric, still smiling, shook his head and inched closer to Thoros to lean against him. “Of course not. I would never trade in my dragon. Your not so divine guidance is what gave me the chance to test my skill against Ser Barristan instead of meeting an untimely end at the hands of the Mountain.”

“Not so divine?” Thoros playfully pouted. “I didn't force anyone to listen to my predictions and even less to trust them for making high bets. I bet on whether drunk fools would believe me. They did and I won, so the Lord clearly approved of my scheme.”

“You set a costly example though,” Beric gave back with a raised eyebrow. “Loras told me how much you lost.”

“Loras doesn't know about my spoils, he only tried to find out if my bets against the two of you differed.” Thoros laughed and put his arm on Beric's shoulder. “Lord Severyn invited me to his wedding next year, saying that bad luck at gambling means good luck in love. I'm sure the saying doesn't quite go like that, but who am I to argue if it gets me invited to a big celebration?” He took a swig from his wine and nodded to the king's chair. “Ser Jaime felt flattered by my god's faith in his skill and said he'll procure the best wine from his father's cellar to drink to it at the big feast tonight. And speaking of gods...” He grabbed Beric some tighter to turn him a bit away from the list, toward a table near the bar.

A group of men, each looking old enough to have lived through the Andal Invasion, was gathered there around a more than opulent meal. A suckling pig sat at the center, surrounded by bowls and plates with sausages, salads and different breads. The men were laughing and toasting and Beric recognized the jugs as those containing the delicious wine. “Ser Tylar called it blasphemy to take advice from foreign gods,” Thoros explained. “He ignored my 'visions' and bet all he had on the other name in each tilt to prove his devotion to the Seven.”

“Gambling is not...” Beric began with an air of importance, but broke off when Thoros shook his head. “Fine, maybe the gods didn't look too closely today,” he said instead with a defeated smile. “I'm alive and unharmed thanks to your devious scheme and it appears it did not do too much damage.”

The crowd roared when the herald stepped in front of the king and Beric used Thoros' brief distraction by that to quickly snatch the jug of wine from his hand. “Does your god have any predictions if Loras will live up to his boasts?” he asked before nonchalantly taking a swig.

Thoros shrugged and raised an eyebrow at the stolen jug. “I didn't ask the flames,” he gave back. “And sadly the melee only pays out for the winner. The one who obeys his king and chases Clegane around long enough with a flaming sword to unseat him gets nothing, so I made no bets today.” He gestured for the jug and Beric returned it to its rightful owner. “What do you think? Will he make it?” Thoros drank and glanced to the list where Loras rode by, just having turned the horse around to take position at the end of the list.

“It's not a wager,” Beric clarified and waited for Thoros to nod. “I do think he will,” he continued when Thoros had confirmed this conversation would not lead to anything that might offend any gods. “He trained for this chance for so long and considered every possible thing that might happen. He's as prepared as a man can be for this fight. Ser Gregor may have the advantage in weight and height, but I doubt he burns for a challenge the way Loras does.” He backed away from the barrier when the herald gave the signal that both combatants had taken position. “That's why I was distracted enough to not see Leiff at the bookmaker's table and didn't hear when he told Loras about betting on him either.” He chuckled when he noticed Thoros' incredulous glance. “He doesn't worship the Seven,” Beric added with a slight shrug. “His gods don't seem to think gambling is sinful. Why would I presume to forbid it just because mine do?”

 

As if the gods truly had a hand in the outcome, the seventh pass brought the decision. Both lance and shield shattered in the same impact and the crowd just went wild. Regardless who people had bet on, they roared in awe and surprise when the herald confirmed the evident outcome and declared Loras the victor of the breathtaking bout. During the following break, the poor bookmakers were almost overrun; there was an onslaught of eager gamblers from all sides. Loras would face Ser Barristan Selmy, the very man who had defeated the Mountain in the previous year. The audience expected an equally unforgettable clash in the finale and it was delivered.

Beric leaned on a fence, sipped wine from a cup adorned with painted lions and absently stared into the distance, through Loras' victory celebration to a vague point in the crowd. He didn't even seem to notice the sneaky approach and jumped a bit when Thoros, returning with new wine, grabbed him from behind.

“You should tell Leiff you know of his bet.” Thoros placed the wine on the pedestal of a nearby lion statue. “He's with Loras' squire, discussing his options to send the winnings to his family without you noticing it.”

“I will.” Beric stood up straight, stretched his back and leaned against Thoros. “Maybe you had a point when you said he still has much to learn. A squire should know how to find a messenger to make such deliveries.” He watched as Thoros' hand stole the wine from him, disappeared and then placed the empty cup on the pedestal next to the jug. “But I'll save the lesson for another day and make the arrangements for him tomorrow.” He looked across the tourney grounds and Thoros' gaze followed until it found Ser Barristan, who was taking his seat at a long table next to King Robert. “I don't feel like teaching today,” Beric added with a dreamy tone in his voice. “Not when I'm the happiest man in the realms. That needs to be celebrated and lessons can wait.”

Thoros laughed and briefly tightened the hug. “Not to be dismissive of your joy,” he said and threw a meaningful glance over Beric's shoulder to Loras, barely visible in a crowd of knights congratulating him on the victory. “But I think you have some serious competition in that regard.”

“We might just be even,” Beric gave back, unimpressed. “I'm happy for Loras and shared joy counts double.”

“Let's join the celebration then.” Thoros nodded toward the table where the royal party was seated and about to begin the big feast of the night. “I wouldn't want the Kingslayer to drink his father's good wine all alone.”

 

﴾ _____________________________________________________________________________________ ﴿

 

“There you are!” Loras wiggled his way out of the crowd of admirers and grabbed Thoros and Beric for a one-armed hug each. “This is the best day of my life and it would only be half as good if I had to celebrate it without you!” His attempt to lift both off the ground didn't quite succeed and Loras let go of them, but leaned closer to Thoros. “What did you tell the king though? He just said I should consider my new sword a gift. I just bought a sword at Horn Hill a few weeks ago. How would he know that and why would he care?”

“Buy another,” Thoros gave back with an innocent smile. “That's why you wanted to visit King's Landing after the tourney, was it not? I was sure you mentioned Tobho Mott yesterday.”

Loras still looked puzzled, but he shook off the thought and turned to Beric with sparkling eyes. “You must find the time to train with me soon,” he said, the excitement back in his voice. “I need to show you how I did it, now that I'm finally sure which trick worked. Maybe we can even try out this idea I have to unseat Clegane!”

Beric nodded, slightly baffled at the invitation and offer to be let in on the secret of Loras' success. “I will send a raven when I return from the Vale,” he said. “It will be a welcome change after enduring the quarrels of my family.” He shot a snide glance to Thoros. “And the inevitable bird jokes certain guests still find amusing.”

 


	23. Free As A Bird

The clearing on the slope down the High Road had changed very little since Beric's last visit to the Vale. The small creek still rushed at the foot of the steep bedrocks, the tall trees and thick shrubs still sheltered the camp from the sight of tribesmen and the mountain range still held off the wind. What had changed was how Beric felt about staying here for the night. He was in a good mood when the sun began to set and he spotted the clearing from a small distance. Traveling with five armed guards and proper tents took away the discomforts of possible attacks of tribesmen and sleeping on the bare ground.

While the guards set up the four small tents around the fire, Thoros and Beric joined Leiff by the stream. There were provisions in the saddlebags of their horses, but the prospect of freshly caught fish was more appealing than bread and dried meat. Leiff had already claimed the best spot on the banks; the river washed around the large boulder he sat on like the king of his own tiny island.

“I've been wondering about something since I got your father's letter.” Thoros glanced over to Beric. They sat on blankets, leaned back against the huge, gnarly trunk of a tree and watched their fishing lines disappear in the water, golden and orange in the light of the setting sun. Beric didn't react, just his eyes wandered from the end of his fishing line to Leiff's boulder. Six sticklebacks and a small trout already lay next to him, as if to mock the fact that Beric and Thoros only had two fish, combined. “I figured you'd explain it in Lannisport, but since you didn't...” Thoros tried again.

“Explain what?” Beric gave back. “Why you were invited? I don't know. Maybe my family just likes you.”

“Why we were invited to Farwatch Keep,” Thoros replied. “I thought the celebration would be held at Raincrest. Yet your father's message made it sound like Ser Aydan doesn't even reside there anymore.”

“Rowland probably managed to burn down his knight's castle.” Leiff laughed and pulled a fish out of the water, another stickleback, but this was a large one.

Beric quietly grumbled, though it was hard to tell if Leiff's comment or his better luck with the fish was the reason. “Not quite,” he said. “But your guess is surprisingly good. Rowland...” He broke off and sighed with annoyance. “He is no longer Ser Aydan's squire. And no, it is not because he was knighted by Jon Arryn.” He quickly sat up when he felt a pull on the fishing line, but it turned out to be a false alert and Beric leaned back against the tree to pout over it.

“What disgrace made Ser Aydan resort to such harsh punishment then? He seemed to not mind Rowland's misbehavior too much in the past.” Thoros offered his laughably small stickleback to Beric, but the offer was declined with a reproachful glare.

“It was my uncle's decision,” Beric explained. “He _did_ mind when Lord Langley informed him that his daughter was pregnant with Rowland's child.”

“Oh.” Thoros looked stumped and put his fish back on the rock next to him. “I take it they were not married...?”

“They were not,” Beric replied. “Now they are and that makes Rowland the heir of House Langley. His new wife has only one older sister and she is a septa who will not get married.”

“So Rowland will inherit two castles?” Leiff turned around with a puzzled expression. “That's hardly punishment if you ask me.”

Beric shook his head. “My uncle had enough of his antics a long time ago,” he said. “Instead of being upset that Rowland almost fathered a bastard, he was very quick to wed him to Myra Langley and declare her father to be his very best friend.” He paused and took a deep breath. “And to ask Ser Aydan to take up residence in Farwatch Keep.”

“Oh.” Thoros and Leiff simultaneously nodded, looking dumbfounded.

This was an awkward scenario, but one that left no room for doubt. Lord Ulric had taken the first chance he saw to get rid of a misbehaved son and make him some other lord's problem. The open approval of the marriage into a much smaller house served as a honorable guise for the true intention. With Rowland out of the way, nothing stopped Lord Ulric from naming his acclaimed son-in-law as his heir. It had never been a big secret that Symone was her father's favorite child and there had been many obvious attempts to tame her bratty brother. However, the attempts clearly had failed. Lord Ulric had run out of patience. To him, the news of his son getting a valley girl pregnant came as a solution sent straight from the heavens; a socially acceptable way out of his demise. His favorite child would inherit the ancestral castle and Rowland would no longer bring House Hallsten to the brink of dishonor; Lord Langley would have to worry about that now.

Leiff thoughtfully regarded Beric for a long while. “Rowland still inherits a castle, doesn't he?”

Beric sighed and nodded. “The seat of House Langley,” he replied. “It's not much of a castle. A small keep in the Snakewood Forest, a few days North of Heart's Home.”

“Still, that doesn't sound so bad.” Leiff crossed his legs and nonchalantly arranged his fish on the rock. “He'll probably have his own forest to hunt in. He won't have to worry about his or his wife's siblings. And the Vale lords protect their people from the clans in the mountains. They don't turn a blind eye to the struggles of smaller houses and leave them to fend for themselves like Lord Bolton does.”

Beric's brow slightly furrowed when Leiff paused and turned around to pull in his fishing line with yet another catch, a small trout. “I'm sure Rowland would disagree,” he gave back. “But you are right, it is less a punishment and more his inability to appreciate that he is fairly lucky, given the circumstances.”

Leiff removed the fish from the hook and put it to the others, then reached for new bait. “I should talk to him and see that we get along better,” he said and threw the fishing line back into the stream. “If Rowland's firstborn is a boy and the parents like me, maybe they'll agree to betroth him to my sister. I have to consider such things when I become Lord of Frostspear Hall.”

Beric stared at him, struggling for words. “You'd have your sister live at my cousin's keep? What has the poor girl done to you that you'd condemn her to such terrors?”

“The early bird catches the worm,” Thoros gave back and chuckled when Beric shot him a reproachful glare.

“Your cousin is child's play compared to Lord Bolton,” Leiff firmly said. “He'll have a nice enough keep and can provide food through a long winter. Wynne may only be four, but it's a rare chance for me to make a match outside the North. Benjen won't marry if he goes to the Wall or the Citadel, so I don't need to worry about him. But there are few ways to send girls away to distant places without a marriage. I'd rather have my sister live with a father-in-law who has the smarts of a tree trunk than see her starve under Lord Bolton's rule.” He paused and regarded Beric quizzically. “Say, your cousin's child, Alyson, I believe...?”

“Aye, after Ser Aydan's mother,” Beric replied. “Don't tell me you want to wed her when she comes of age.”

Leiff laughed and shook his head. “No, but little Alyson might need a nanny. Or a handmaiden when she gets older. Dayana is suited for both tasks.”

Beric swallowed and shot a quick glance to Thoros, but instead of advice he got only a shrug. “You can speak to my cousin,” he turned back to Leiff. “Though I suspect she'll tell you that it is not proper for a young lady to do commoners' work.”

Leiff dryly laughed and threw his fishing line back into the water. “You can't eat a title and it won't keep you warm in a harsh winter. I've done commoners' work. It didn't kill me and it put food on the table. That's proper enough if you ask me.”

 

﴾ _____________________________________________________________________________________ ﴿

 

The guards had prepared the tents and arranged the shifts for the night watch when the three fishermen returned to the fire. It had become chilly close to the river after nightfall and the warm air around the pit was a welcome change. Leiff's luck had not run out, much to Beric's quiet envy, granting the group a plentiful feast of grilled fish, bread and ale.

"Why are you so opposed to my idea?" Leiff turned the trout to see if it was done. "Don't you agree that my sister would have a better life in the Vale than in the North?"

"I do, but not with my cousin. Rowland has always been trouble and he always will be." Beric left no room for doubt about his conviction. "You've only met him on a few tourneys, with his knight nearby to keep him in line. I've known him all his life. Even my uncle says Rowland was born under a dark star."

“That's a real thing,” one of the guards, Elyas, interjected while cutting the bread. “People said the same about my older brother. He could never keep his mouth shut, drank too much and got lewd with women. My father was strict, but punishment only seemed to be taken as encouragement to misbehave in different ways. Next year will be the twentieth anniversary of the day my brother was sent to the Wall for raping a tavern wench outside of Fawnton.”

Beric took the bread Elyas offered and nodded. “I'm not saying Rowland would do such a thing to your sister,” he said, looking to Leiff. “But he won't be a good lord. You'd send Wynne to an uncertain future under a lord who acts irresponsibly every chance he gets. One time, when I was fourteen or fifteen, they all came to visit; my uncle, my aunt, both their children. I only saw them very briefly when they arrived, as I had to attend a tourney on Tarth with Ser Garvan. My father later told me that my uncle had left the next day as well, to visit a falconers' market in Dorne. However, my aunt stayed and talked to my parents about fostering Rowland. She thought he might need stricter guidance, since my uncle has a habit of traveling for months at a time and Rowland would not listen to anyone."

"Your aunt might be onto something there.” Thoros chuckled and took the flask from his belt, drank a few sips, then put it back.

"I'm sure she is." Beric laughed. "My father thought so as well, but he did not think he could provide the much needed guidance. In the few weeks of the visit, Rowland had caused nothing but trouble. He had thrown the key to the wine cellar into a well...”

“And he did it on purpose,” Yanic, one of the guards, chimed in. “I saw it. He stood at the well and giggled and I thought it's just a kid fascinated with the echo, so I let him be. I went closer though, just to make sure he wouldn't fall in. When he saw me approach, he reached into his pocket, pulled out the key, and threw it into the well. He laughed and ran away when I asked what it was. We found out a week later, when the servants began to prepare Lady Laneah's name day feast and could not get into the cellar.”

“He also tried to pee into newly made helmets in the armory, but the armorer's apprentice caught him in time,” Beric continued. “Later that week, he stole a stuffed goose that was meant to be served at my mother's name day feast. Rowland fed it to the hounds in the kennel."

Leiff shrugged, seemingly unimpressed. "He was only a boy. All boys sometimes play pranks."

"Not all," Thoros mumbled under his breath with a smirk. "Certainly not the Lord Paramount of Good Behavior." He glanced to Beric, sitting close enough to hear it and immediately looking at Thoros with a daring expression.

But instead of retorting, Beric answered with a contentious smirk and pointedly reached for the flask on Thoros' belt to claim it for himself. "That was not all," he said and nonchalantly opened the captured wine. "Rowland also somehow managed to lure a foal into the pantry. It was discovered by the cook shortly after, but it had already knocked down every crate and smashed half the jugs in an attempt to reach a barrel with apples. Oh, and Rowland set the weaving loom on fire. Twice."

Thoros calmly watched his flask when Beric drank a few sips and made no move to return it. "I can see why your father didn't want to put up with him," he said while his eyes followed the flask to the ground next to Beric.

“I will always be grateful to Ser Garvan,” Beric gave back with an amused sigh. “I was spared from the terror Rowland unleashed at Blackhaven and when I returned, I could tell by my father's face just how much the little brat must have annoyed him.” He didn't react fast enough to intercept Thoros' hand, stealing the stolen wine back in an unexpected, swift move, and just shot him a playful, angry glare.

"And I've always known your father to be a very patient man," Thoros said and took a pull from his wine. “I imagine it takes quite some skill to make the man lose his temper.”

"A few months after this visit, my mother told me that Rowland had been made page to Ser Aydan." Beric chuckled. "At the time I was mad about that and thought he didn't deserve such a reward. Later I realized it was an attempt to tame his bad manners. Ser Aydan agreed to it because he was betrothed to Rowland's sister and saw it as a favor to his future family, not a chore."

Leiff seemed more thoughtful now and pondered what he had heard while he distributed the grilled fish to the party. “Maybe becoming a husband and father has changed Rowland's mind,” he said after a short silence. “I will talk to him and find out if he now takes responsibility for his family. If I think he has abandoned his reckless ways, I will propose the betrothal. If he's still the same fool as before, he'll never hear a word about it.”

“That seems fair,” Beric replied, visibly relieved. “I doubt much has changed, according to my aunt's letters. But if he came to his senses, he deserves a second... or third or fourth chance.”

“What about you?” Thoros took the bowl Leiff handed him and looked up long enough to give Beric the time to seize the wine. “Are you looking for a wife in the Vale for yourself? You've been making plans for your siblings all day, but you'll need a lady when you become lord.” He watched Beric take a swig and then store the flask next to him and drape his cloak over it, as if Thoros couldn't see where he was hiding it. “Ser Astron Ruthermont will probably be at the celebration. He's a good man and I heard he has a daughter your age.”

“Me? No, not in the Vale.” Leiff laughed and decidedly shook his head. “I'll marry a lady from the Riverlands. It is wiser to forge bonds with a house closer to the North.”

Beric regarded him with mild surprise and abandoned his futile attempt to hide Thoros' bottle. “Is there a specific lady you plan to wed? Why did you never mention her before?”

“Not a specific one.” Leiff shrugged. “But the prettiest girls are from the Riverlands and I hear they make for good wives and happy marriages.” He sat down with his own fish and looked to Thoros. “Do you happen to know knights from the Riverlands who have unwed daughters? I'd certainly take a look at those if you'd make introductions.”

 

﴾ _____________________________________________________________________________________ ﴿

 

“What is it with the Vale and weddings?” Beric sighed when he crawled into the tent and over Thoros as if he didn't see him, slumped down over him and began arranging his cloak. “For warmth,” he explained, now with a teasing tone in his voice. “You're too used to your cozy chambers in the Red Keep, if I recall.”

Thoros laughed, grabbed Beric and heaved him off to the side. “That may be so, but I do not recommend putting your full weight on my full stomach.” He couldn't see Beric in the relative darkness, but he could guess there was a playful pout on his face. “And you're just a grump about weddings, regardless where they take place.”

Beric propped himself up on one arm and rested his chin on Thoros' shoulder. “I'm not a grump,” he gave back defiantly. “But I'm not stupid either. Don't tell me you didn't notice Ser Aydan's absence on recent tourneys. He competed in Lannisport every year since he was knighted, this year he did not. He didn't show up to Renly's name day celebration either and Renly told me he was invited. Ser Aydan sent a raven to express his regrets, saying he had pressing family matters to sort out and it left him no time to travel.” He sighed and felt around in the tent until he found Thoros' flask, buried under his cloak. “My mother called it a 'fairytale' when he married Symone. Now look what became of it. Nothing but trouble.”

Thoros took the flask away from him when he noticed Beric tried to open it with one hand and was likely to spill the wine. “It doesn't have to be,” he said, opened the flask and gave it back. “Your father doesn't pressure you either, so you can make sure you find a trouble-free wife.”

“And I'm grateful for that.” Beric drank, miraculously without spilling the wine over himself, then offered the flask back to Thoros. “The longer I can postpone my inevitable demise the better.”

Thoros laughed, took the flask and ruffled Beric's hair with his free hand. “Not a grump, not at all.”

Beric lowered his head to rest it on Thoros' shoulder again, quietly grumbled and didn't answer. After a brief silence, he looked back up. “Wouldn't it be unfair to a lady if I wed her, left her at home and continued my travels? I haven't seen enough of the world yet, but it would not be safe or proper to take a lady with me. And I would not want to be like my uncle who spends so much time away from home that he forgets my aunt's face.”

Thoros nodded, but he remained silent. His thoughts drifted back to King's Landing, to Robert and the regrets he expressed in quiet moments after too much red wine. To the nights when the laughter had faded and Thoros was alone with his king and all the roads he had left untraveled. To those conversations when Thoros had cautiously broached the subject of leaving the Red Keep for a while to travel with Beric, expecting His Grace to be angry and ordering him to stay. Robert had never even raised his voice. “Send me ravens,” he had said, his voice stern and pensive. “It will be good to know what adventures can be found in the damned kingdoms I conquered. Find me something that makes it all worth it and send me that tale.”

“Once I have seen all there is to see of the world, we can look for a lady,” Beric's voice brought Thoros back to the here and now.

“We?” Thoros echoed. He felt around for the flask when he realized it was no longer in his hand, then he heard Beric drink from it and demanded it back.

“I won't take a wife without your approval,” Beric explained. “Nor would I wed a lady who disapproves of our friendship.” He put his arm over Thoros and inched closer, finally giving up the flask in the process and confirming Thoros' suspicion that it was almost empty. “You would come to visit me frequently, wouldn't you? Or take up residence at Blackhaven, if His Grace allows it?” Thoros drank the last sip of wine and put the empty flask somewhere behind the pillow, but he didn't get a chance to reply. “You are too important to me to stay in King's Landing,” Beric went on, slightly slurring the words in an attempt to sound stern. “I'd really hate to start a rebellion if the king won't let you go.”

Thoros laughed and put his hand on Beric's arm. “We'll think about rebellions later,” he gave back. “But speaking of Robert...” The more serious tone made Beric expectantly lift his head to listen. “He often speaks of his youth in the Vale,” Thoros continued. “Though his tales are clouded by nostalgia, there clearly were years he very fondly remembers. If you want to spare Leiff's baby sister from a betrothal, maybe you could have a word with Lord Doric Rainborn.”

“Ser Aydan's brother?” Beric sounded puzzled. “How could he save the girl? Rowland is no longer a squire. Lord Rainborn has no say in his affairs, even less than the knight Rowland used to serve.”

“But he is a friend of Jon Arryn, the man who fostered His Grace and his Northern brother,” Thoros replied. “He might be receptive to the suggestion of upholding the tradition and offer fosterage to two Northern girls.”

For a moment, Beric seemed to think about it and it was quiet in the small tent. “I like that idea,” he then said. “But what will Leiff think of it? He seems rather keen to arrange for his sisters to get married. I may not like it, but it is his family and his decision.”

“It's not about marriages, it's about having ties to the Vale,” Thoros explained. “It's evident to me Leiff tries to emulate Lord Eddard Stark, the king's foster brother. He's also rather keen to take a wife from the Riverlands instead of a Northern girl whose house would be even closer. He wants a wife who resembles Lady Catelyn Stark, a daughter of House Tully of Riverrun.”

“He does speak very highly of Lord Stark,” Beric noted. “And you are probably right about his intentions. Leiff wasn't looking for matches during our travels, it only came up now in regards to the Vale.”

“Fosterage is not cheap,” Thoros added. “Leiff probably sees an early betrothal as the next best thing he can afford. But if you would speak to Lord Doric and cover the fee...”

“I will,” Beric quickly cut him off. “No price is too high to spare a young soul from my cousin.”

 

﴾ _____________________________________________________________________________________ ﴿

 

Thoros crawled out of the tent at first light. He relieved the last shift of night watch from their duty and told the tired men to at least take a long nap. After putting new wood on the low burning fire, Thoros went down to the stream to take in the peace and quiet. The early hour right at dawn had always been his favorite time of the day. Of course, evenings filled with wine, song and laughter had much to offer. But there was a different, more tranquil quality to those fleeting moments in the morning. When the first light crept up on the horizon, it felt as if the upcoming day boldly revealed its intentions to a still sleeping world.

Down by the banks, Thoros threw a handful of chilly, fresh water into his face to wash away the last shreds of sleep. Wide awake now, he looked around for nothing in particular. Maybe dry wood to feed the small fire, maybe a shrubbery to pick berries, maybe just a cozy spot to sit down and give up on the vague idea of doing some work. His eyes grazed the tall, knotty tree by the rocks and Leiff's fishing rod leaning against it, as if to mock him. It only looked like a makeshift rod, Thoros decided. In truth, it was a shaman's wand used to channel dark magic, perhaps with enchantments granted by the Old Gods. It was the only explanation how Leiff could deprive the stream of all fish and make it look effortless and easy. Maybe, Thoros thought, with this magic device, he could restore his fisherman's honor and catch more than three laughable sticklebacks. He pondered the idea, but before he made a decision, a rustle from the tents made him turn around.

“What woke you up this early?” Thoros left the fishing rod where it was and watched Beric come closer with some surprise, wearing the red cloak on top of his own.

“I heard you tell the guards to get some rest,” Beric replied as if it was perfectly natural for him to not sleep in. “I don't mind if you give my guards orders, but someone has to keep watch in case the tribesmen descend from their mountains. We're still a day away from the Bloody Gate.” He reached the bank of the stream and leaned against the old, knotty tree, next to Leiff's enchanted rod.

“Sometimes I think you take your knightly vows a little too far,” Thoros gave back. “I know, I know, its honorable to defend the weak, but protecting the mountain clans from me is unlikely to be part of that promise.”

“You are a shining example of humility.” Beric snickered and absently regarded the rod and the tree. “If only I could be this humble about my swordsmanship.”

“On your feet before dawn and a joke from your lips.” Thoros chuckled. “Things truly have changed since we last went to the Vale.” He shot a snide glance at his cloak as Beric pulled it some tighter around his shoulders. “Though one thing is just as it has always been. You're still a filthy thief, not ashamed to steal a man's only cloak.”

Beric shrugged and sat down on the roots of the tree, holding his stacked cloaks open with one arm for Thoros. “I thought you were away from your cozy chambers long enough to get accustomed to chilly nights in the wilderness.” Thoros accepted the offer, sat down next to Beric and let him drape the two cloaks over his shoulders. “But you are right, things have changed and all for the better,” Beric continued, now in a more serious tone. “It is hard to believe that not even two years have passed since we traveled this road, yet it all feels so different.” He quietly laughed to himself and pulled Thoros closer. “I'm bold enough to steal the cloak off your shoulders now. I wouldn't have dared to think about it back then.”

“Aye, you only tried to sneak away while still wearing it,” Thoros noted. “I'm afraid that counts as stealing, my lord.”

Beric skeptically raised his eyebrows, but he smiled. “Fine, I admit I had hoped you would forget to demand it back and I'd have a keepsake to remind me of your visit. I thought having proof that a famed swordsman liked me would break the curse of being Ser Slumber.” He leaned his head against Thoros' and absently watched the rushing water of the river. “And at the same time I was terrified you'd think I wanted your fame and renown instead of your company. Looking back, it was probably only half true.”

“The thought never occurred to me,” Thoros gave back. “Frankly, I was too preoccupied with my own worries. I hadn't traveled on my own accord in many years and was glad to have an excuse to do so. As much as I like Robert, hunting boars in the same forest and getting drunk at the same festivals had become a routine more than entertainment. It was a fresh breeze of novelty to visit Blackhaven.” He chuckled, picked up a pebble to throw it into the river, then felt around on the ground for a new one. “When you walked me to the guest chambers, I almost expected you would ask me to leave. That I had offended you or your father by getting drunk in the barn. I was used to traveling with Robert and people not speaking up about such offenses in front of the king. Old habits are notoriously hard to break, you know? It only occurred to me later that it might not have been appropriate and I should have minded my manners on my first visit.”

Beric peeked over with disbelief in his eyes and searched the ground next to him for small pebbles. “I was used to being the weird, quiet knight who sat with the commoners because he didn't fit in with his peers,” he said after a brief silence. “It would have taken quite a bit more to offend me so much that I'd have asked you to leave. I don't know, maybe if you had tried to flirt with my mother.” He gave a newly found pebble to Thoros. “Even then, it's entirely possible I would have let it slide. I was too concerned I'd be a bother. What would a dull knight with no sense of humor have to offer to you?” He sighed and chuckled resignedly. “I was not very good at hiding how much I craved your attention, was I?”

Thoros threw the pebble after the first one and thoughtfully watched it disappear in the stream. “No, I can't say you were, my lord,” he said after a while. “You were as subtle about it as a cannibal from beyond the Wall trying to hide his true appetites at a royal banquet. But you were not a bother. Not since you sobered up in King's Landing anyway. Ever since, your company has been nothing but a delight.”

A slight frown appeared on Beric's face at the mention, but it quickly made way for a smile. “Likewise,” he quietly replied. “With you by my side, I feel less lost in this world and I don't know how I can ever thank you enough for your guidance.”

“You already do.” Thoros put a kiss on Beric's temple, then leaned his head back against the old tree. “You rekindled a flame that burned too low for too long. The world looks brand new when we travel together and you remind me to treasure the freedom I have to explore it. Without you, I would never have found that lost magic again. Not in the Red Keep, not in the fire and not at the bottom of a bottle. The light that woke me from my slumber shines from you.”

Beric slowly turned his head to stare at Thoros, forgetting the new pebble he had picked up and just letting his hand hover in the air. “Why does that sentiment sound like poetry from your mouth and when I say the same it just doesn't?”

“You are too generous, my lord.” Thoros snickered and took the pebble from Beric's hand. “A simple 'thank you' would have been enough.”

 


	24. Family Affairs

They had reached Farwatch Keep in the golden light of the midday sun, after staying the night in a small inn near the foothills. There had been enough time to settle in, clean off the dust from the long journey and chat with other early arrivals before the ceremony began. Seven oils had been used on the young lady, seven blessings had been said in the castle's hidden garden, seven doves had been released for good fortunes. Now the babe was with the wet nurse and the numerous guests had gathered in the Great Hall to eat the seven courses of the feast.

Musicians played cheerful songs, the food smelled delicious and there was plenty of wine and ale. Beric saw many familiar faces among the attendants; most from the Great Houses of the Vale, some from farther away. Ser Aydan had briefly introduced Beric to his older brother, Lord Doric Rainborn, who had arrived with his wife earlier in the day. Though the conversation had not been long, it had left a good impression on Beric and made him hopeful that the suggestion of fosterage for Leiff's sisters would fall on fertile ground. Leiff was still determined to give Rowland a chance, but he was less hopeful and it was easy to see why.

Rowland's new wife, Myra Langley, wore a dress that was more appropriate for a dancer on a festival than for a noble daughter who was very heavy with child. Her condition had not stopped her from drinking heavily either. Ever since the first course had been served, her father had dragged her back to her seat no less than three times after Myra had decided to dance in front of the table. Rowland had not even looked up from the plate when this happened and continued to sullenly shove his food around with a fork. His father, Lord Ulric, had certainly seen Myra get up; she had demanded a partner to dance with loud enough to draw his attention. But he had pretended to be immersed in a conversation with Lord Rainborn and only briefly looked up after Lord Langley had put an end to his daughter's drunk dance for the third time.

 

“It's funny how you Westerosi put such an importance on name days.” Thoros leaned back in his chair to take a break from the indulgence between the fifth and sixth course. His remark sounded amused and Beric quizzically glanced over.

“You don't celebrate it in Essos?” He leaned back as well; it was indeed a good time for a break after a course of roasted duck, dripping with grease.

“Some people do.” Thoros' gaze wandered around the Great Hall and finally rested on a large table where guests had placed the gifts for the young lady. “I just never knew mine, so I had nothing to celebrate until I came to King's Landing.”

Beric reached for his wine and thought for a moment. “You celebrate your arrival in the Red Keep instead?”

Thoros chuckled and shook his head. “I should,” he said, now looking for a servant to fill his glass again. “But no. I told Robert that we share the same name day, shortly after we first met. It was just a joke; he told me his name day was coming up and I said 'what a coincidence, that's my name day as well'.” A servant noticed the empty glass in Thoros' hand, hovering over the table, and quickly hurried over with a large carafe. “For some reason, he was excited about this 'coincidence', so we've celebrated 'our' name day together ever since. I can't say I understand why it makes him so happy, but it does.”

Beric nodded to the servant to have his glass refilled as well, then looked back to Thoros. “You lied to your king?”

Thoros shot him a long, reprimanding glare. “Of course not,” he said and took a few sips from the wine. “He wasn't a king at the time. The coronation took place a few days later. And maybe that really is my name day and I just never knew, if you prefer to think of it that way.”

Beric laughed and shook his head. “It doesn't make any difference in the end. Parents pick name days for their children, you saw a chance to pick your own. I don't think it does any harm, unless the king finds out you were not truthful with him.”

“And he won't.” Thoros eyed the servants as they carried in trays with the next course; dates wrapped in bacon, spiced lamb racks, and bowls with black olive salads. “He's told so many people about 'our' name day by now, I don't have the heart to tell him it's not true after all those years. And I trust you to not tell him either; nobody else knows this dark secret of mine.”

“I won't say a word,” Beric gave back. “Maybe it's treason to withhold such precarious information from my king, but it's a risk I'm willing to take.” He paused and waited for the servant to place the trays on the table before he continued. “You know, sometimes I wonder what he thinks when you tell him you'll travel with me and won't entertain him in King's Landing. Maybe I am a filthy thief, as you say, not stealing cloaks or wine, but whisking my king's friend away to distant places.”

Thoros appraisingly regarded the trays, then made the choice of not choosing and gave all delicacies a fair chance. “There's no big mystery to his thoughts,” he said while balancing a bacon-wrapped date on his spoon. “He'd rather go with us than sit on his throne. But he's the king, and a king's duties lie in the capital. Letting me go and seek adventures with you is the next best thing.” He thrust his fork into a lamb rack and added it to the dates on his plate. “Whenever I return to the Red Keep, Robert can't wait to hear more about our travels. He'll have a feast with the best food and wine and listen to the stories I tell all through the night. It's the same when Jalabhar Xho comes back from archery competitions, except the poor guy still hopes he can convince Robert to help him take back his kingdom one day.” Thoros sighed and reached for a bowl of soused olives. “Robert seems so happy to hear our stories, I think sometimes he forgets it's really sadness he feels.”

Beric swallowed and slowly placed a lamb rack on his plate. “That our travels brighten the king's day is a comforting thought,” he gave back. “I sometimes worried I got in the way of your preferred entertainment. The women, the drinking, His Grace is always very outspoken about his enjoyment of these things.” He shot a quick glance to Thoros. “And yours.”

“You think I don't indulge as much as I'd like to because you might not approve?” Thoros raised his eyebrow and laughed when Beric undecidedly nodded. “I might hold back a little to not shoo my fledgling away,” he admitted, still chuckling. “Don't worry about it, I have enough opportunity for such distractions. Those things are not hard to come by, they are wherever I go. There'll always be another barrel of wine in another tavern and there'll always be another whore in another brothel.” He grabbed Beric around the shoulders with one arm and pulled him closer. “But where would I find another you?”

 

﴾ _____________________________________________________________________________________ ﴿

 

The musicians played livelier songs since the seventh course had been served and the music merged with the chatter from smaller groups in the Great Hall. Some people were dancing near the podium, but Myra Langley was not among them. Apparently, she had danced enough earlier and moved on to something else. The last time Beric had seen her, she had argued with a servant while Rowland simply ignored it despite sitting in the eye of the storm.

Ser Aydan had joined Beric and Thoros after the feast to catch up and ask how the tourney in Lannisport went. It seemed he could not get enough of the details, who faced whom in which tilt, who came out as the victor in what way, how the spectators reacted and placed their bets. Beric gladly delivered, starting with his arrival and talking to Loras, then moved on to the first round and its results. To Thoros' surprise, he openly admitted that he had no idea how he could have bested the Mountain and to Beric's surprise, Ser Aydan related to it. He had been in an eerily similar situation some years ago, except he had not been spared thanks to a Red Priest. Instead, Ser Jaime Lannister had made good use of Ser Aydan's preoccupation and unceremoniously unseated him before he advanced to face Ser Gregor Clegane himself.

“It was the first bitter defeat on the lists,” Ser Aydan said with a chuckle. “But at the same time, I was grateful it happened. There's no shame in a loss to a man like Ser Jaime. Kingslayer or not, he's a formidable jouster. I still buy him a cup of the best wine available whenever we meet and after all those years, he probably still doesn't know why.” He laughed and raised his cup to a toast. “To Ser Jaime, for saving my arse back in Lannisport! And for the amusement he provides with his confused expression whenever I hand him the wine.”

Thoros and Beric joined the toast and the tale continued; the chaos Thoros had spread with his wrong predictions, how eager the king was to see Ser Gregor defeated. Beric spent quite some time talking about his bout with Ser Barristan before moving on to Loras' triumph over the Mountain and the spectacular victory in the finale. The longer Beric spoke, the more Thoros felt reminded of Robert when he looked at Ser Aydan. He laughed and joked, but it did not feel as genuine as it had in the past. There was now that same blend of envy and melancholy in his words that Thoros heard when feasting with Robert and talking about his latest adventures. It had been faint at first, but the longer their conversation went on the stronger it grew.

The subject had changed to Renly's banquet when a servant informed Ser Aydan that Lady Gylenna was looking for him. Beric knew there was no escape from his aunt; she could be quite impatient and just as insistent. “We'll continue this chat later,” he said and received a quick nod as answer before Ser Aydan got up and made his way across the hall to where Lady Gylenna waited with one of her brothers. “You must excuse me as well,” Beric turned back to Thoros. “I just saw my uncle join Lord Rainborn at his table. It seems a good time to propose fosterage for Leiff's sisters while he's there.”

“Smart move.” Thoros chuckled and emptied his cup. “If anyone can convince him it's better to not be related to Rowland it's the father who replaced him with a more acclaimed heir.”

 

﴾ _____________________________________________________________________________________ ﴿

 

“The maester can't tell,” Myra declared, slurring the words and waving for a servant to bring more wine to the table. “But if it's a girl, I want to name her 'Lysa'. Like Lady Arryn, you know? It would...”

“You can call a boy 'Lysa' as well for all I care,” Rowland cut her off and sighed with annoyance. “Your fault, your child, do whatever you like.”

“ _My_ fault?” Myra glared at him, seemingly forgetting that Leiff sat across from them. “How is it my fault? None of the other boys ever put a child inside me. Until you came along and ruined my life!”

“What was there to ruin?” Rowland got up from his chair as if it helped to speak louder. “You'd still whore yourself out to the oafs from the valley if it wasn't for me. I'm a far better match than you deserve! _My_ life was ruined! I could have married a _real_ lady!”

Leiff slowly pushed his chair away from the table and took his chance to get up and leave the arguing couple when both were distracted by new wine being served. Thoros couldn't help but laugh when Leiff sought refuge on the bench next to him, reached for a glass and downed the wine.

 

“That bad, huh?” Thoros pulled a carafe closer to refill the glass as well as his own.

Leiff glowered at Thoros for a short moment, then nodded over his shoulder to Rowland, still arguing with his wife. “Lord Beric has never been this right,” he finally said. “Even if they owned every forest in the Vale, there's no way I'd betroth my sister to the spawn of these two demons. Rowland really doesn't appreciate the first thing about how lucky he...” The argument on the other table grew louder and now Lord Langley seemed to interfere. Leiff threw a brief, annoyed glance to them and turned back to Thoros. “She may not be a lady, but at least she doesn't look like an ogre and her parents seem to be kind people.” Again, the yelling from the other table made Leiff pause and sigh. “Her mother is kinder though,” he admitted.

Thoros took a few sips from his wine and slightly nodded. “I got the same impression,” he said. “I happened to overhear some gossip earlier. Apparently, Lord Langley sent Myra's older sister to train as a septa because she had the looks and the charm of a wildling and he thought it impossible she'd find a good match.” After looking around to make sure he was not overheard, Thoros leaned closer to whisper to Leiff. “Some even say he approved of Myra's behavior, hoping for this exact thing to happen. A rushed marriage to a boy of higher status to spare his family from the shame of a bastard.”

Leiff didn't look shocked or surprised. He just shrugged and reached for his wine. “No wonder he's so upset then,” he said after drinking some sips. “He probably didn't expect to be stuck with _this_ kind of fool either.”

 

“Have you spoken to Rowland yet?” Beric sat down across from Thoros and Leiff after throwing a glance over their heads to the ongoing argument on the other table. By now, Myra's mother had joined them and loudly berated her daughter for being ungrateful while Lord Langley had a stern talk with Rowland, who had his arms crossed and stubbornly stared to the gate.

“Briefly, my lord,” Leiff sullenly gave back. “I got as far as asking if the maester can tell if it will be a boy or a girl.” He reached for the half-empty carafe and refilled his glass. “They'll call the child 'Lysa' either way and it's the only thought they put toward the future.”

“I take it no betrothal was discussed then?” Beric took Thoros' glass to drink some sips from the wine. Leiff quietly glared at him, shook his head and returned the carafe to the middle of the table. “Good.” Beric exchanged a quick glance with Thoros, then looked back to Leiff. “I'm sure Lord Doric would not allow anyone with ties to my cousin to stay at his castle. I spoke to him about...”

“So Rowland didn't burn down Raincrest,” Leiff dryly interjected. “That's surprising, all things considered.”

“Don't interrupt your knight.” Beric pointedly raised an eyebrow, trying to look stern, but Thoros could tell he barely managed to hold back a chuckle. “Aren't you curious why it would matter to Lord Doric if your sister was betrothed to... 'Lysa' Langley?”

“I am.” Leiff shrugged. “That would have been my next question. But you just told me to not interrupt you.”

A brief pout ended Beric's attempt to seem strict. “Fine, I'll get straight to the point if you're not in the mood for guessing games. I thought it might ease the tension that might arise from you thinking I might have overstepped, but...”

“...you might be overthinking the situation,” Thoros cut him off, smirking.

“Don't interrupt my knight!” Now Leiff tried hard to look stern and fought to hold back a grin.

“I spoke to Lord Doric about fosterage for your sisters,” Beric blurted out and Leiff's eyes immediately jumped to him. “He has agreed to foster Dayana,” Beric continued after a deep breath, now calmer again. “He won't take a child younger than six, saying they belong with their mothers. But if Dayana does well and gets along with his children, Lord Doric will consider fostering Wynne once she's old enough.”

Leiff just stared at Beric for a long moment, looking for words and not finding any. When neither Beric nor Thoros said anything, Leiff got up, went around the table and hugged Beric without a word, then returned to his seat.

“So you don't think your knight overstepped by making such arrangements without your knowledge?” Thoros nonchalantly asked and drank from his wine.

Leiff strongly shook his head and finally found his voice again. “Absolutely not,” he said, laughing with relief. “Though, I probably would have taken offense a few days ago, before I had a chance to talk to Rowland,” he admitted after a pause. “But you respected my wishes, let me see for myself how bad my plan was and I appreciate that.”

“You should talk to Lord Doric to make the arrangements,” Beric said. “He mentioned a Wandering Crow who frequently visits his lands to take recruits to the Wall. On his next visit, he could take your sister from Eastwatch to Gulltown by ship. But you'd still need to see that she gets brought to Eastwatch and the guards of House Rainborn pick her up in the Vale.”

 

﴾ _____________________________________________________________________________________ ﴿

 

“Thoros, I am glad to see you accepted my invitation.”

Lord Ossyn emerged from a small crowd near the musicians' stage to approach Thoros. Beric's family had arrived late, only moments before the formal ceremony had begun in the afternoon, and Lord Ossyn had blamed the delay on getting surprised by harsh weather outside King's Landing. To wait out the storm they had stayed in an inn a day longer than planned and not had the time for a proper greeting once they reached Farwatch Keep. It was better for Lady Laneah's fragile health, he had claimed, but Thoros had his suspicions that it was not entirely true.

Ever since Beric had mentioned that his father loved the tea from Essos, Thoros had thought more and more about the implications and pieced his hints together. He couldn't recall the exact date of the anniversary Lord Ossyn wanted the tea for, but he was reasonably certain the date seemed to change quite a bit. After the feast and the ceremony, he had also overheard a conversation between Beric's mother and Lady Symone that suggested the climate at Blackhaven did wonders for Lady Laneah's health and she hadn't looked better in years. It was hard to disagree with the notion. Lady Laneah clearly enjoyed the celebration; she had laughed a lot throughout the feast, joked that she might burst if she didn't stop eating, but could not resist the delicious courses and therefore gladly took that risk. Right now she was dancing with her brother only a few steps away, laughing and chatting with Lady Jiara over the music. A sickly woman certainly looked different than that, even if she had time to recover from the ailment Lord Ossyn claimed had befallen her before they reached the High Road.

Lord Ossyn, on the other hand, looked more tired than Thoros remembered. He rarely got up from his seat all day, barely participated in the lively chatter and lost his appetite completely after four courses. Even now, as he attempted to sound casual and cheerful, Thoros thought the man looked exhausted; paler than usual, as if he rarely left his own keep. It was also a too curious coincidence that he happened to come across Thoros in this very moment. Beric and Leiff had just left the table to speak to Lord Doric Rainborn and it was the first time during the feast Thoros was not near either of them.

“The pleasure is mine, my lord,” Thoros gave back and got up from his chair for a slight bow. “It is always good to see familiar faces and there are many of them in the Vale by now.”

“It is indeed,” Lord Ossyn replied. “It just wouldn't be right to not extend invitation to you. I hear so much from Beric about your travels, it feels like you have become part of the family.” He reached for the backrest of a chair, not to pull it off or sit down, just to support himself. “You should visit Blackhaven more often,” he added. “I enjoyed your last stay, even though I was rather busy and our time to chat was cut short. Maybe I should ask for more of that tea my wife loves so much to give you a reason to visit again.” It was meant to sound like a joke, but the subject came up much too suddenly to not add to Thoros' suspicions.

“Maybe we should retire to the solar then,” he suggested. “We can catch up there without spoiling the surprise for your wife.”

 

As Thoros had thought, Lord Ossyn had been eager to get away from prying ears and eyes. On the way to the stairs, he had seemed nervous and looked around in the Great Hall as if he expected to be watched from all corners. He had only stopped doing so once he spotted Beric on Lord Rainborn's table, engaged in a conversation and not paying attention to see his father sneak away from the crowd.

The thick, wooden door fell shut behind Thoros, but he didn't go further into the room. Lord Ossyn seemed more relaxed than he had been in the Great Hall. He sat down in an armchair by the table and his expression only betrayed mild irritation when he saw that Thoros did not follow him and stayed by the door like a guard.

“About the tea...” he began in a casual tone, pretending to get the subject out of the way before it escaped his mind in favor of more important matters.

“I won't get it for you,” Thoros sharply cut him off.

Lord Ossyn paused and regarded him for a moment, then he cleared his throat and absently straightened his coat. “Your contact in Essos can't procure it, I take it?” he concluded. “My wife will be...”

“Your wife doesn't drink the tea, you do.” Thoros crossed his arms and leaned against a tall bookshelf next to the door.

Again, irritation flashed on Lord Ossyn's face, but he managed to remain somewhat composed. “Well, I did, on occasion,” he flippantly admitted. “Who wouldn't be curious about an exotic import?”

“What makes this import so exotic is not the place it comes from,” Thoros calmly replied. “There are merchants selling Dusk Rose tea in King's Landing, Oldtown and quite a few all across Dorne. I'm sure many people buy from them to satisfy their curiosity about wares from distant places. But only very few purchase the quantities you asked for in the past.” Lord Ossyn was about to speak, but Thoros ignored the attempt and just continued. “The only person I know buys such large amounts is Grandmaester Pycelle. He orders tea leaves along with other herbs that have medical properties and distributes them to maesters in nearby castles. There's no secrecy about it and why would there be any? It's just another medicine they buy and...”

“I have told you about my wife's fragile health!” Lord Ossyn's composed facade was crackling, though he still tried to not let on that he didn't like the direction of this conversation. “I never made it a secret either that...”

“Your 'fragile wife' is dancing the night away downstairs,” Thoros interrupted. “You did tell me about her condition and I recall you mentioned the climate in the Vale makes it worse. Yet there she is, all bright-eyed and bushy-tailed, making plans to ride to the valley with Lady Jiara tomorrow.”

Lord Ossyn huffed, but he didn't have an excuse this time. He just crossed his arms and turned his head to the window to evade Thoros' gaze.

“You can't possibly believe I think your wife sips the tea for pure enjoyment.” Thoros' voice was softer now and he stepped away from the door toward the table. “People think it is an acquired taste at best and only few care to acquire it after their first cup. Dusk Rose tea is described as bland and bitter at the same time; it's not something people drink for the taste.”

Lord Ossyn still didn't answer and just kept staring to the window. After a long silence, he finally looked back to Thoros and got up from the chair. “If you won't deliver, I'll find someone who will,” he said. “If it will cost me more, so be it. My wife's happiness is worth it to me.” He made a step toward the door, but Thoros didn't move and kept blocking the way.

“And Beric's happiness is worth this to me,” Thoros gave back. “If you open that door now and go back downstairs, he'll know of your condition the moment I follow. As will your wife, your brother-in-law, every lord in the Vale, every fucking peasant in the Seven Kingdoms.”

Lord Ossyn gasped with indignation, but he made no attempt to walk toward the door. “How dare you?” he blurted out after Thoros' words had sunk in. “You have no right to...”

“No, I don't,” Thoros cut him off. “But consider your options. You can sit down and listen to what I have to say. Or you can go back down there and explain to your family why you had to kill a friend of the king under their roof.”

It was quiet in the solar for a long, breathless moment. Lord Ossyn's eyes sparkled with anger and for the first time during their conversation Thoros thought he was looking at a proud warrior, not a weak man who was fighting a battle against himself in secret. It didn't last. The sparkle faded, Lord Ossyn sighed and sat down in the armchair again. “What do you want?” he asked, resigned to his fate.

Thoros waited one heartbeat longer, but the warrior had left the room as suddenly as he had appeared. He went over to the table and sat down across from Lord Ossyn. “I want you to swallow your pride and tell me the truth,” he gave back in a more amicable tone.

Again, silence fell and Lord Ossyn's gaze drifted to the night sky outside the window. “The maester said it will be my last summer,” he finally said. “It would not be right to burden my family with the looming darkness.” He slowly looked back to Thoros. “You know my son better than anyone. You know he would not truly live if he knew his father was dying. I owe him the chance I never had. Therefore I beg you to not go against my wishes and keep this secret, now that you know the truth.”

Thoros nodded and thought about it for a moment. “You are right about Beric,” he then quietly replied. “He wouldn't. Maybe you didn't mean it when you called me 'family' and just tried to flatter me to put me in an agreeable mood. But he certainly sees it that way and I know what damage it could do if we were to argue. I won't say you owe him the truth, not yet. But you do owe that to yourself. I understand that you want to be strong for your family and spare them the worry, but you need to accept that you can't face this alone.”

“Then what do you suggest?” Lord Ossyn sighed and leaned back in the chair. “I have consulted the maesters, I even sought out healers of the Greenblood in Dorne. If there is a miracle waiting for me, I have not found it. Death is the one enemy no man can defeat.”

“If men can't, you should ask gods or women.”

Lord Ossyn quizzically regarded Thoros after this apparently serious remark. “I did,” he said after a pause. “I visited a witch in the Rainwood forest, or so I thought. It turned out to be just an old woman with knowledge of herbs and no abilities one could attribute to magic.”

“Travel to Myr, to the temple of R'hllor in the heart of the city,” Thoros continued, undeterred. “You'll find a woman by the name of Sandrine there. Her father gave her to the temple when she was six years old, after Sandrine had seen the Lord of Light in a dream and he had told her she'd be a priestess, favored by him. She was this nobleman's only child, so this was a great sacrifice, but R'hllor had chosen her and there's no refusing the Lord.” Lord Ossyn still seemed skeptical, but he didn't interrupt Thoros. “Two weeks after she was given to the temple, Sandrine cured her mother of a long illness with nothing but a touch of her blessed hands. It was the first of many such miracles she performed throughout the years. Find her in Myr. She can give you another summer even though you don't believe in the One True God.”

“And how do you know this?” Lord Ossyn inquired, now more intrigued than skeptical. “Why would a Red Priestess receive a stranger who follows the Seven?”

“You never wondered who my source in Essos is? She is. She used to be my teacher when I was a boy,” Thoros gave back. “She hasn't forgotten I favor wine and wondered why in the world I need that much tea all of a sudden.”

“And here it shows how little I know about the world outside my castle.” Lord Ossyn produced a weak smile and looked back to the window. “It never crossed my mind my demands might arise suspicions in Essos that find their way here. To me, it's a strange, distant land full of strange, distant people who take coins without asking questions and the goods they sell disappear, out of sight, out of mind.” He turned back to Thoros and his voice was more firm when he continued. “What will you do in my absence? What will happen if I return and haven't found the miracle you promised?”

“Then I expect you to tell your family the truth,” Thoros replied. “I wasn't sure what that truth was until today, so I kept the suspicions I had to myself. But I have certainty now and it wouldn't be right to keep a secret like this from a friend.” He got up from the chair and slowly wandered across the room to the door. “If you do find a cure in Essos, however, I see no reason to reveal the true purpose of your journey to anyone. And regarding your absence...” He opened the door, allowing the faint chatter and music from the Great Hall to enter the room. “I certainly won't rule Blackhaven while you are gone, so you should discuss that with Beric.”

“I will.” Lord Ossyn slowly got up from the armchair and followed Thoros to the open door. “I will make preparations for my journey and leave for Essos as soon as Beric returns from King's Landing after the tourney.” He paused and waited for a short moment, regarding Thoros with furtive eyes. “Unless you press me to hasten my departure.”

Thoros smiled and shook his head while holding the door open for Lord Ossyn. “I won't,” he gave back. “I did not miss Beric's name day this year, but we 'celebrated' in a tent by the River Road, soaked wet with rain. It was my fault because I insisted we'd make it to the Inn of the Kneeling Man in time and of course, we didn't. If you called Beric back to Blackhaven before I made up for it at the king's tourney, we'd both face his wrath. I have no other choice but to give you the time you demand.”

Lord Ossyn chuckled and stepped through the door. “It shall be done then as we agreed. After the king's name day tourney I will leave for Essos.”

 

﴾ _____________________________________________________________________________________ ﴿

 

The moon stood high outside the window, the celebration was over, and only a half bottle of wine was left to be shared in the guest chambers. A fire crackled in the hearth and cast flickering shadows against the walls of the room. Thoros sat in front of it on a large, fluffy rug, leaned back against the bed where Beric lay on his stomach and watched the flames.

“You are a good influence on my father, you know?” Beric lazily stretched his arm in an attempt to reach the bottle in Thoros' hand. “He told me he has plans of traveling. I can't recall him being gone for more than a few days in recent years, but he said our tales inspired him to see more of the world.”

Thoros smiled to himself and gave Beric the bottle. “Must run in the family, this reluctance to leave the nest. Or your father sees that the fledgling you were a year ago has grown into a bird and...” He paused, slowly turned around and chuckled when he met Beric's reproachful glare. “You're right, it feels wrong to say that. Makes me sound like Varys if I call you a bird.” Beric raised an eyebrow, took a pull from the bottle and made no move to give the wine back. “But you did grow up, there's no denying that and your father can see it as well,” Thoros said, eyeing the bottle. “And he's not the only one who is proud of you. I overheard Leiff bragging to other squires, telling them he has the best knight in the realms.”

Beric reluctantly returned the wine and inched closer to the edge of his bed. “I should have a talk about humility with him,” he sternly said, then laughed when Thoros rolled his eyes. “And speaking of sins, something good came of my cousin's disgraceful behavior.”

Thoros quizzically regarded Beric and downed the rest of the wine. “And what would that be?” he asked as he got up and put the empty bottle on the mantle of the fireplace.

Beric smirked, rolled on his back and spread out his arms as if to underline his high spirits. “Not a single person has pestered me about my plans to get married, not even Aunt Gylenna.”

 


	25. The Art Of Deception

“You know, when I said I sometimes worry that I'm keeping you away from your preferred entertainment, I didn't mean I want to take part in it. It's fine with me if you...”

Beric stopped outside yet another tavern in the heart of King's Landing and Thoros paused, his hand already on the knob of the door. He slowly turned around and appraisingly regarded Beric for a moment, then made a step back toward him.

“You are my guest,” Thoros reminded him sternly. “It was my fault you got drenched on your name day and I promised to make up for it. I put some thought into my plans how to do that. These are very respectable establishments, not cheap whorehouses in the alleys of Flea Bottom. They serve the best ale and mead in the Seven Kingdoms. I thought you'd appreciate my efforts of tailoring a night out in town to your tastes.”

“I don't understand why you are complaining either, my lord.” Leiff shot Beric a brief glance and smirked. “I get to cover a lot ground in my search for the cook from White Harbor.” He paused when Beric took a deep breath, but continued before his knight got to speak. “I know, it isn't _my_ name day, but still. Don't you like trying the food in so many places? Chatting with visitors who are here for the king's tourney, excited to meet a knight who will compete in the joust?”

Beric sighed in defeat and nodded to the door. “Fine, we'll have another drink here,” he said. “Though there was no need to do anything special for my name day. In the past I just had a small feast with my family and a few drinks with Anguy and some of the guards later at night. I'm not a king, I don't need to celebrate for days that I am a year older.”

“But it never hurt anyone to celebrate either.” Thoros opened the door and entered the tavern, Leiff followed him and so did Beric, resigned to his fate.

 

The Wild Ox had been just as crowded as every tavern they had been to before. King Robert's big name day tourney was less than a week away and the city was teeming with visitors from far and wide. The Windy Arms by the harbor had been filled with merchants from Braavos who hoped to find buyers for tapestries, books of poetry and candied fruit at the tourney's market. They generously passed around samples of their edible wares and certainly garnered interest from the locals that way. In the Golden Hammer, near the festival grounds in the shadow of the King's Gate, many knights and sellswords had gathered and drank to the success they hoped to find during the tourney. The House of the Mother, just a corner away from the Great Sept of Baelor, attracted a more placid and docile audience. Dignitaries from distant places and emissaries of foreign gods discussed myths and folklore with locals devout to the Seven, though just as many were busy praising the Westerosi dishes they rarely got to enjoy at home.

It hadn't been as late as Beric had thought when the tour through the taverns of the city had ended and he fell face first onto the bed in the Red Keep. Admittedly, it had been interesting to see all these different places, but the evening had been more exhausting than expected and all he wanted now was undisturbed sleep. This had not been the usual relaxed night of drinking and telling stories or making plans for future travels. As soon as they had finished their first drink in a tavern, Thoros decided it was time to move on to the next place. Beric had made a few attempts at convincing him that it was perfectly fine to stay a bit longer and he didn't find the tavern too noisy or dull. But Thoros insisted on showing off all King's Landing had to offer, from the watering holes of sailors by the harbor to the wine cellars the wealthy and highborn preferred. Leiff didn't mind the tour of the city either. On the contrary; he hadn't found the cook he was looking for, but at least he had discovered a stew he thought was the realms' _second_ -best in a small inn near the alchemists' guildhall. “Sometimes I think I should have been born a commoner,” he had said. “I'd be a cook with my own little tavern then. Maybe somewhere by the Rose Road or in Gulltown. Not here in King's Landing though; there's too much competition.”

 

﴾ _____________________________________________________________________________________ ﴿

 

The sky outside the window still wore the hazy orange of dawn when Beric lazily opened one eye in the morning. What roused him from sleep was the sound of the curtains being opened, but what kept him from dozing off again right away was Thoros' voice, much too cheerful for this early hour.

“I have a better surprise for you now!” Thoros returned from the window and grabbed the edge of the blanket, but before he could pull it off Beric managed to roll around, wrap himself in it and thereby escape to the other side of the bed. “Are you sure Ser Elyor nicknamed you 'Ser Slumber' because he found conversations with you too dull?” Thoros dryly commented. Too sleepy to answer with a reproachful glare, Beric just grumbled and buried his face in a pillow. “Renly and I spoke to the master-at-arms,” Thoros continued, undeterred. “He agreed to let you and Loras use the training grounds in the courtyard with the captains of the gold cloaks. You said you wanted to practice with Loras, didn't you?”

Beric laboriously unwrapped himself from the blanket and sat up in the bed. “Aye, but I meant...” He broke off when he noticed Thoros' hopeful expression. “My apologies,” he said with a sigh and shot Thoros a smile. “I didn't mean to sound ungrateful. It's a thoughtful surprise and I appreciate it.” He stretched his back and yawned, then smirked to Thoros. “And Loras will appreciate it as well. He may be the more experienced jouster, but when it comes to swords I can teach him a trick or two.”

“Not if you stay in bed.” Thoros chuckled and grabbed Beric's clothes from a trunk by the wall to throw them at him. “Get dressed. I'll find some refreshments and meet you downstairs. The training might be harder than you expect.”

 

﴾ _____________________________________________________________________________________ ﴿

 

The sun had fully risen when Beric arrived in the courtyard and cast a fresh, vibrant light over the maze of paths, gardens and hedges. Somewhere in the distance, there was already a small bustle. Gold cloaks of the City Watch and housed knights prepared for the daily training. Some checked if pell posts still stood sturdy enough to withstand the strikes later, others instructed squires and pages in setting up targets on the equestrian range or handed out practice swords outside the barracks.

Beric had found Thoros on a stone bench by a wide gravel path leading past a fenced meadow; a herb garden, judging by the variety of patches and wooden planters and the chatter coming from a door to the adjacent kitchen. Apparently, Thoros had already paid the kitchen a visit while Beric was getting dressed and made his way to the courtyard. A basket with sweet bread, ale and Myrish oranges waited on the bench when Beric sat down.

“You spoil me.”

It was certainly not a complaint and Thoros knew it. He just shrugged, shot Beric a wry smile and threw an orange to him. “After I dragged you through every tavern and inn in the city, I thought I owe you that much. I guess I got carried away a bit yesterday.”

Beric shook his head and began peeling his orange. “I had a good time, it was just rather exhausting,” he gave back. “When I went drinking with Anguy in the past, we just rode down to the nearest settlement and stayed in whichever tavern we happened upon first. There are rarely more than two or three places to pick from and they lack the variety one can find in such a big city.”

“That's what threw me off.” Thoros took a bottle of ale and opened it. “I thought if I find a tavern you really like, you'd appreciate the name day surprise. Whenever we sat down in one place I had an even better idea and insisted on going there.” He took a pull from the bottle, then laughed to himself when he put it down on the bench. “I frankly had no better ideas than celebrating your name day the way I celebrate mine.”

“Well, you did now.” Beric put the peel aside and began pulling apart the segments. “We can pretend we celebrated your name yesterday and today's practice on the royal training grounds is my surprise.”

“Sounds good to me.” Thoros smiled to himself and ate some of the sweet bread. “I should have asked Renly sooner. He laughed when I told him I dragged you through the taverns and said I should have known you'd rather do something else with your time in the city.”

Beric playfully pouted before putting a piece of orange into his mouth. “It wasn't _that_ bad,” he mumbled while chewing. “What does he think I like to do? Pray in the Great Sept of Baelor all day?”

Thoros laughed and ruffled Beric's hair with his free hand. “He did agree that the training on royal grounds was a better idea,” he said. “I just hope he told Loras about it and he'll be here on time.”

Beric furrowed his brow and looked up from the orange, down the path to where the gold cloaks were about to begin their training. “You didn't tell _Loras_ about this?” He chuckled, ate another piece and reached for the ale. As Beric moved his head to see where the bottle was standing, Thoros quickly shot a glance over his shoulder and roguishly smirked to himself. He inched closer to Beric, put an arm around his shoulder and inconspicuously turned him back to face the training grounds in the distance. Beric paid no attention to this behavior. He drank some sips of ale, put the bottle back on its spot by the basket and watched a group of squires receive instructions from the master-at-arms. He also ignored Thoros' sudden urge of dragging his feet through the gravel under the bench; an unnecessary attempt at distracting from the steps coming closer. “But I doubt Loras would miss a chance to practice,” Beric absently noted. “Maybe he just overslept and will be here soon.”

 

“I have reason to believe Ser Loras won't make it today.”

The voice made Beric freeze and it took a moment for him to slowly turn around and see Ser Barristan approach the bench, the white cloak of the Kingsguard bright in the sun. He stopped in front of the bench and gave Beric an encouraging nod. “But since we are both here to train, why not make do with each other?”

Thoros chuckled at the blank expression and Beric's unsuccessful attempt to find words. “ _Now_ you look sufficiently surprised,” he noted with a satisfied smile. “I'm still a bit surprised myself that Robert let me borrow one of his kingsguards.” He put a kiss on Beric's temple and got up from the bench. “I have some things to take care of at the harbor today, so I'll leave you to it.”

 

﴾ _____________________________________________________________________________________ ﴿

 

“You plan your distractions with care.” Renly smirked and sipped from his red wine, then flinched with annoyance when the sun broke brightly on the edge of the glass. “I'm beginning to think you should have been a politician. The art of deception seems to come naturally to you.”

Thoros shut the door behind him and reached for the carafe, sitting on a small, ornate table next to Renly's chair. “That's not a deception,” he gave back while pouring the wine into a glass. “That's making up for the deception I used yesterday. To no avail, I should add. Who would have thought it is this impossible to find a tavern owner who accepts reservations? Wherever I asked I got the same answer; the tourney brings so many patrons, it's first come first serve, no exceptions.” He downed the wine and put the glass back on the table, then sat down in a tall armchair across from his host. “It almost feels like King's Landing has forgotten who I am in my absence.”

Loras let go of the curtain he had held open, sparing Renly from further harassment by the bright midday sun, and turned around to the newly arrived guest. “A night of drinking with you doesn't sound so bad in exchange for personal training with Barristan Selmy.” He made a few steps away from the window, to the middle of the room and toward the table. “I volunteer for another tour if you want to look for taverns again tonight. I need sword practice more than Beric. He gets to train with you all the time. I, on the other hand, would have forgotten which way is up on a sword if it was not for my brother's occasional requests to train with him.”

Renly chuckled and slightly shook his head in disbelief. “You know how meticulous Selmy is about his training routine,” he gave back. “Maybe your father wouldn't pester you about getting back onto a horse, but you would certainly not have a more relaxed day.”

Loras shrugged and returned to the window, Thoros poured himself a new glass of wine. “I might have to take you up on that offer,” he said with a sigh. “Though I asked in all the _good_ taverns already. Would training with Ser Barristan be worth it to roam the cheap alehouses in Flea Bottom?”

He smirked when Loras wrinkled his nose, but appeared to consider the offer nonetheless. Renly chuckled as well and took a sip from his glass, then he looked back to Thoros. “That won't be necessary. With all due respect to your talents in deception, I think what you need is a skilled negotiator.” He casually pulled a bowl of fresh peaches closer to his side of the table and thoughtfully regarded the fruit, seemingly undecided if he was hungry. “Leave this to me.” He took a peach and shot a long look to Loras. “And take him with you for the other preparations. If he keeps staring down to the courtyard in envy, his glare will burn a hole in Ser Barristan's chest.”

 

﴾ _____________________________________________________________________________________ ﴿

 

“Does he expect you back shortly?” Thoros stopped Leiff on the hallway outside his chambers, apparently on the way to the stairs with Beric's surcoat and cloak.

“I doubt it.” Leiff shrugged and laughed. “He almost fell asleep in the bath and then again at the table when I served the food. I'll be free for the evening after I brought these downstairs for cleaning.” He nodded to the clothes over his arm. “Ser Loras has given Iagan the night off as well, so we were planning to go to the harbor and see if the merchants from Braavos are still handing out samples of their candied fruit.”

“Then I won't stand between you and free candy,” Thoros replied. He pulled a scroll out of his pocket and gave it to Leiff. “Here's a list of things I need you to take care of tomorrow. Loras' squire can probably help you deliver the messages. He knows where most of these people stay and Renly will have told him in which tavern the celebration takes place.” Leiff slipped the scroll into his pocket and nodded, then continued his way down the hallway. “Bring me some of the candied oranges,” Thoros added before he opened the door to his chambers.

 

A faint smell of cloves and chamomile lingered in the room when Thoros entered and found Beric stretched out all across his bed under a pile of silk cushions and light blankets. There was an open bottle of spring wine on the bedside table, an empty glass next to it and plate with sweet bread and a green apple sat on the table under the window. Beric's pants lay on the floor by the bed, along with one of his boots. The other one peeked out from under a cabinet, his tunic was flung over the backrest of a chair, and the sword belt, along with the sheathed weapon, rested on the sofa further back in the room.

Thoros sighed with amusement, closed the door and stepped over the clothes and boots to sit down on the edge of the bed. “Did Selmy tire you out so much that you forgot all your manners?” he teased while stroking Beric's hair to see if he was indeed sleeping. “My chambers smell like a bathhouse and look like a brothel.” Beric lazily opened one eye, smiled innocently and inched closer, then he grabbed Thoros with one arm and buried his face back in a pillow. “I take that as a 'yes'.” Thoros chuckled and kept running his fingers through Beric's hair. “I'll let you sleep in then. Looks like you had an exhausting day and it won't hurt to be well-rested for tomorrow.” Beric's eye opened again to shot a tired, quizzical glance up to Thoros. “Renly and Loras asked us to join them on a night out in town,” he got an answer to his silent question. “I usually spend my 'name day' with Robert and you know how he is regarding his brother.” Beric slightly nodded and closed his eye again, but only for a brief moment. “And you also happen to look quite adorable; come to think it must be the blend of you being happy and tired. I just can't bear the thought of cutting your night short. If I do that, you look grumpy instead.”

Thoros smirked at Beric's sleepy attempt at a reproachful glare, Beric quietly groaned into the pillow. “Won't I ever outgrow this? And more importantly, do you think people notice? It would be very inappropriate if I accidentally looked 'adorable' in a joust.”

Thoros laughed and ruffled Beric's hair, omitting the fact that the habit of overthinking such remarks only contributed to the issue at hand. “You wear a helmet, so it wouldn't be seen by the audience,” he noted, then leaned down to whisper into Beric's ear in an ominous, foreboding tone. “But I can consult Lord Varys about other occasions. He has his spies everywhere and they'd certainly report back to him about occurrences of adorable knights roaming the realms.”

 

﴾ _____________________________________________________________________________________ ﴿

 

“Are you sure this tavern is even open for business?”

Thoros skeptically regarded the wooden sign above the door; 'Nightingale's Nest' was written on it in blue letters. The paint seemed to be fairly new, there were no missing edges or corners and the color was vibrant, not worn out by the weather.

“It isn't.” Renly crossed his arms with a satisfied smirk while Thoros tried to peer through a window. “You wanted a tavern for an undisturbed celebration. I understood 'undisturbed' as 'free of regular patrons', so to make sure I just rented the place.”

Thoros stopped his efforts to see the interior through the curtains and looked back to Renly. “How many guests did you invite that we need a whole tavern?”

Renly answered with an innocent smile and reached for the doorknob. “Not many. Only Ser Wylis Manderly and his wife Leona. It's a brand new tavern, about to open officially on the first day of the tourney. Lady Leona's former handmaiden married the man who owns this place, that's how the Manderlys know.” He pushed the door open and waited for Thoros to enter. “They asked whose name day will be celebrated, I told them. Ser Wylis remembered talking to Beric in White Harbor and said he looked forward to catching up, so I could hardly tell him he's not invited.”

Renly followed Thoros into the common room where a long banquet table was already set for the feast. The scents of food wafted through the air from the kitchen and chatter could be heard through a door. “My gift requires some space,” Renly explained when he noticed Thoros' quizzical expression, looking to an almost empty corner of the room.

“You said you invited Ser Wylis, not Lord Wyman.” Thoros chuckled and went closer to the long table. “What do you need this much space for if not for a guest too fat to sit on a horse?”

“I don't blame you for trying.” Renly wandered back to the open door to observe the street outside the tavern. “But you will have to wait and see what my surprise is.”

“That's not fair.” Thoros stopped his slow pacing and looked over to Renly. “I told you about mine. You even saw it from your window.” He grinned when Renly sighed and rolled his eyes. “Well, you _could_ have seen it, had Loras not blocked the view. But you know I arranged for the training with Ser Barristan and invited him for tonight.”

“And I told you I invited the Manderlys.” Renly shrugged, now looking amused again, and turned back to the door. “I see Loras, Beric and their squires,” he added after a moment. “I should let Ser Wylis know we're about to begin soon.” He left his spot and went to the stairs leading to the guest rooms, leaving Thoros to grumble behind his back.

 

“This seems a strange place to start a night out in town,” Beric noted after he had entered the tavern, followed by Loras, and inspected the table and the empty corner by the hearth. “I might not like too crowded taverns, but this place could use some more patrons, don't you think?”

“It won't stay this empty.” Thoros slowly wandered closer to the table, Loras went straight to the fireplace further back in the room and Leiff and Iagan stayed by the door as if to guard it from unwelcome intruders. “The guests will arrive soon; you're just a bit early.”

Beric stopped and turned to Thoros with a puzzled expression, but before he could ask, Loras returned from the hearth with a sword. It looked freshly forged and unused, the keen blade gleamed in the light of the fire, not a scratch on it. “A name day gift,” Loras explained, matter-of-factly. “His Grace insisted on paying for a sword forged by the finest smith in King's Landing after my victory in Lannisport.” He threw a quick glance to Thoros. “I was advised to keep my mouth shut and accept the generous gift. But nobody said I must keep it.”

Still a bit confused, Beric took the sword to inspect it; it was indeed a fine piece of craftsmanship. Then his gaze wandered back to the long table in front of him, the realization finally dawned and he looked over to Thoros. “You tricked me,” he said after a moment when Thoros just smirked. “Damned warlock you are, you arranged for _this_ to make up for my rain-swept name day?” Thoros kept smirking, proud of the successful surprise, and silently nodded. Loras chuckled as well, took the sword back and placed it on the mantle of the hearth again. Free to move now, Beric stormed around the table to hug Thoros, then he suddenly froze. “But who did you invite? My family went back to Blackhaven. My father said he needs to make preparations for his upcoming journey.”

Thoros returned the hug with one arm and ruffled Beric's hair with his free hand. “I tried to invite Anguy,” he said. “But two days ago, Maester Jeon replied to my message, saying Anguy won't make it in time. He caught the river fever while we were in the Vale and still sneezes so much, he can barely stay on a horse.” He briefly glanced over his shoulder to the open door. “So I invited Jalabhar Xho. Not to say one archer is like the other, not at all, but he has interesting tales to tell and makes for pleasant company. He asked to meet you a few times when I told Robert about our travels and tonight felt like the right occasion.” Beric, now smiling, let go of him and slowly went back to look at the table. “And I invited Ser Barristan,” Thoros calmly added and Beric instantly stopped dead in his tracks.

Loud, rambling steps from the stairs woke him from the brief shock and awe moments later. Renly returned in the company of the first guests. Ser Wylis was not quite as fat as his infamously obese father, but just as jovial and genial as his old man. And unlike Renly, the Manderlys made no secret of the gift they had brought. Ser Wylis gave Beric a dagger in a black leather sheath with silver brightwork without further ado and while they chatted, waiters carried trays with bottles of ale and wine to the table.

 

Not only Renly and Thoros had made invitations, Loras had done so as well. The holdup by the door a short while later was caused by the guests he had invited. Ser Eldrion Thorncliffe and Lady Yigara were delighted to hear Leiff had been promoted and chatted with him outside the door. They were accompanied by two unfamiliar faces who Loras introduced as Ser Eldrion's oldest son Mortymar and his wife Viviane. The gifts the quartet from the Arbor had brought did not come as a surprise; sweet, fruity Summerwine in bottles of colored glass that made the red wine look deep purple in the tavern's dim light.

Thoros noticed Beric smirk to himself when the older Thorncliffe couple entered the room. The reason for his subtle amusement was obvious; Lady Yigara wore a rich yellow dress in the unmistakable style of famed Dornish tailors. Nereon Krakensong had not been wrong about her taste in fashion, though it was probably not just the gown in the 'most cheerful color of all' that made her such a merry person. Ser Eldrion, usually calmer and less ebullient, matched his wife's high spirits tonight. He chatted away about the reason to accompany Mortymar to the tourney; his son Paxton had shown interest in the path of knighthood and would be old enough to become a page soon. Since the boy followed the Drowned God like his father and grandfather, this undertaking required careful consideration and finding the right kind of knight. Ser Eldrion was all but subtle about his thoughts on the matter. Both he and his son inquired if Beric had plans to knight Leiff any time soon and if either of them would consider a page with Ironborn roots. Before Beric was put on the spot of having to answer, he was rescued by the timely arrival of Thoros' guests.

A few days ago, Beric had mused about getting used to the company of acclaimed knights when he nursed his ale in the Golden Hammer. Now it was evident that Thoros had him firmly beat in that regard. Ser Barristan's presence alone was still enough to almost overwhelm Beric with awe, but when he entered, all eyes were drawn to his companion. Jalabhar Xho, Prince of the Red Flower Vale, was a sight not even a kingsguard could rival. His cape made of vibrant green and scarlet red feathers fell over red-golden robes like the folded wings of a mythical creature. Exiled or not, there was something kingly about his appearance. Maybe it was the way he carried himself, the tall and lean stature or the contrast of ebony skin with warm, amber eyes.

The prince politely waited for Ser Barristan to greet Beric and quietly chatted with Thoros by the door. On his way to the table, Ser Barristan inevitably noticed the sword on the mantle and remarked that his gift was a better idea than he had first thought; Beric definitely needed a new sword belt if he had such a fine weapon to carry on it. Only when Beric had somewhat contained his excitement over Ser Barristan not just attending his feast, but even bringing 'a warrior's gift', as he put it, Jalabhar Xho felt it was time to catch up. “A warrior's gift as well,” he said, smiling. “A keen blade needs a keen mind to match.” At first, the small box he gave Beric looked unassuming; wood almost as dark as his skin, two metal clasps and a single Valyrian word etched on the lid. Further inspection revealed it to be a cyvasse board that doubled as a container for the stylized pieces; a game to take along for long journeys when distractions were scarce.

 

Thoros had kept a close eye on Renly while Beric and Loras talked to the guests. The social butterfly didn't flutter around as usual, he stood by the stairs with a roguish smile and remained suspiciously quiet. Though he didn't say much except for polite greetings, his behavior spoke a clear language and it was one Thoros knew. Warriors liked to measure their skill in combat, Renly saw social gatherings as a battlefield meant for proving his prowess. Renting the entire tavern instead of reserving a table was a first step to impress, but for his taste it didn't go far enough. Renly watched the gifts Beric received with eagle's eyes and his satisfied smile only briefly made way for mild concern when Jalabhar Xho captivated the room with his exotic appearance and kingly demeanor.

However, Renly was in no rush to make his grand impression. He calmly took his seat by the table when the first course was served; fresh summer greens with lobster in a light sauce of lemon and butter. Just when the last plate was brought to the table, Renly jumped up and apologized for the interruption. Coincidentally, it had occurred to him just now that the feast needed some entertainment. Thoros had asked him to hire a mummer or minstrel, should he find one who would agree to appear on a small, private feast instead of taking the more lucrative chance and play in crowded taverns. Until now, Thoros had assumed Renly simply hadn't found such an oddity, but it began to dawn on him this assumption was wrong. Renly had merely waited to have the guests' full attention to present his surprise.

Since everyone agreed that an entertainer would be a splendid addition, they didn't mind waiting a moment before beginning to eat. Renly triumphantly smiled and left the table, disappeared up the stairs and left the guests collectively wondering what attraction awaited them. Not even Loras knew what Renly had planned and the guess he whispered to Thoros was 'probably one of those pompous things he likes to do if he has an audience'. Both looked up from their quiet conversation when the guests gasped in awe and all eyes jumped to Renly, coming back down the stairs and basking in the undivided attention with each step. Once he reached the floor, he seemed to remind himself that he was not the reason for the amazement. He quietly pointed to the empty corner of the tavern with a slight bow, then made way for the true attraction that followed him a few steps behind.

Two women were talking their stage, each flanked by two younger girls, servants or apprentices perhaps, who made sure the long trains, veils and silky scarves did not drag on the ground. The attire the women wore was as elaborate as it was revealing. Gemstones sparkled on earrings, necklaces and bangles, tops made of golden beads drew attention to the allures of their bodies, and long, shiny skirts with ornate embroidery rustled with each step they took.

“Emmyne and Athea,” Renly introduced them from behind Beric's chair, well-aware and proud he had made such an impression. “Courtesans famed for their talent and beauty in Braavos.”

 

Beric shot Renly a brief glance, silently asking if he had lost his mind, then looked around on the table. His guests didn't seem to share his disconcertment. On the contrary, they seemed enthralled by the upcoming entertainment. Before Beric found words to voice his blank astonishment and slight indignation, Renly smirked and leaned down. “Remind me, which Baratheon am I?” he whispered in Beric's ear with a roguish chuckle.

“Renly?” Beric took a wild guess and turned around, just to make sure.

“Aye and that means I'm not Robert,” Renly replied in a hushed tone. “I know better than bringing whores to your celebration. They are here for eyes and ears only, but if you keep staring like that, somebody might get the wrong impression.”

He stood up straight behind the chair again to continue his introduction. “Athea is a renowned musician; she plays eight instruments and has the most beautiful voice ever heard all across Essos.” He waited for the 'oohs' and 'aahs' to go quiet, then gestured to the second woman. “Emmyne is a performer of traditional dances and recites poems from every corner of the Known World.” Again, there were appraising murmurs and when Renly returned to his seat, Athea began to play her first song on a stringed instrument that had been hidden behind a long curtain before.

“Careful, my lord.” Thoros chuckled and leaned closer to Beric, speaking hushed enough to not be heard by Ser Barristan on the next chair. “You were almost adorable again for a moment.”

Beric had relaxed after Renly's explanation and by now he had regained enough composure to shot Thoros a brief, playful glare. “Minstrels are not dressed like that where I come from,” he whispered back. “Not that I mind that _these_ minstrels are dressed that way. I don't mind, not at all.” He smiled as his gaze wandered over to the performance; Emmyne now swayed to Athea's music. “But you have to admit it's an easy mistake to make the wrong assumption if you're not used to such sights.”

“It is,” Thoros gave back and reached for his wine. “Though, they are not 'minstrels' and you aren't entirely wrong. However, only a Lannister might have the spare coins to gift his friends pleasures beyond songs and poems from these women. They are worshipped like goddesses in Braavos and...”

“It was a matter of manners,” Renly interrupted, his voice as hushed as Thoros', but there was an invisible pout in his words. “I _could_ afford both of them, but it would betray bad taste to consider it an appropriate name day gift.” He paused and furrowed his brow in thought, then he quietly laughed to himself. “Maybe you are right. That _is_ something a Lannister would do.”

 

﴾ _____________________________________________________________________________________ ﴿

 

“I wish I could stay just a few days longer.” Beric rolled around in his nest of blankets and pillows and reached for the bottle of ale on the bedside table. “When you said you'd make up for the name day spoiled by rain I expected many things, but not that I would have the best week of my life.” He opened the bottle and drank a sip, then offered the ale to Thoros. “There aren't many things I think could have been any better.”

Thoros took the bottle and moved the cyvasse board and a bowl of candied oranges aside to sit down on the edge of the bed. “Not many things?” He quizzically regarded Beric before taking a pull from the bottle.

“I didn't expect you'd conspire with Renly and Loras to surprise me with a feast,” Beric gave back. “A bottle of rum does not seem to be an adequate gift in return.”

“It's not a competition.” Thoros laughed and put the ale back on the bedside table. “I got my wish; we finally had the chance to celebrate our name days together. And though you probably don't have a clue about rare spirits from Essos, you found the one treat I like best. Dark rum spiced with anise is not easy to get this far from the Summer Islands.”

Now Beric chuckled and shook his head. “I asked Ser Barristan,” he admitted. “He told me what you drink with King Robert and which merchant to look for during the tourney.” His gaze wandered over the bed and finally rested on the candied oranges, just out of his reach. “And that is the second thing.” He tried to sound upset and frustrated, but his mood was too good for being serious about it. “I didn't place better than last year in the joust despite being well-prepared.”

“You didn't place worse either.” Thoros pushed the bowl with the oranges closer to Beric's hand. “Nor did Loras. The two of you were dead even. I should be the one complaining about you not making my bets any easier.”

Immediately, Beric lifted his head and furtively regarded Thoros. “So you don't always bet the same amount on both of us,” he concluded, his hand hovering over the bowl. “Who is your favorite then? If it's Loras I promise I won't be offended.”

Thoros slowly shook his head with a thoughtful expression. “But maybe it's you and that would offend Loras.”

“I wouldn't tell him,” Beric quickly interjected. “It would be our secret, nobody else needs to know.” He put a piece of candied orange into his mouth and gave Thoros an encouraging nod.

“Or it really is Loras and you'd start overthinking my reasons,” Thoros continued, undeterred. “That would be a distraction I wouldn't want to burden you with. Keeping quiet about my bets seems the best thing to do.” Beric grumbled and let his head drop back into the large, silky pillow. “You'll know once you two have faced off on the lists.” Thoros chuckled, ruffled Beric's hair and got a pout instead of an answer.

“I'd still rather have placed better yesterday,” Beric stubbornly noted after a moment of silence. “The king certainly expected an improvement from me.”

“The king enjoyed your showing,” Thoros corrected him. “He also had no complaints when a sellsword from Braavos won the melee. Robert even bought several crates of candied fruit from the merchant who employed the victor.”

“I should have done the same. These candied oranges are delicious.” Beric stopped pouting and inched closer to Thoros. “Delicious enough to bribe all of Blackhaven into compliance in the weeks to come.”

Thoros chuckled and put his arm over Beric, curled around him from the back like an overgrown cat. “I know, you worry about your father's absence,” he said. “And I'd come with you, but I can't, not just yet. Robert wants me at court next week when he receives dignitaries from Pentos.” Beric quietly nodded into the pillow. “Ride with the Tyrells or the Thorncliffe party. They'll distract you from your worries. I'll follow as soon as I escape the king's golden cage.” Again, Beric nodded and didn't answer. “And stop overthinking things,” Thoros added. “It won't be so bad to rule Blackhaven for a few weeks.”


	26. Born To The Purple

Beric leaned his chin on his arm and kept staring to the window of the Great Hall. It was a wonderful day out there, the weather couldn't have been any better. Sunny, but not too hot thanks to a fresh breeze from the East, just the right blend for a few hours of training. The weather was equally suited for hunting, Beric decided after staring some longer. He could almost hear the ducks by the Widow's Stream call his name, just as loud as the fish in the Wyl, insisting he should grab a rod and turn his attentions southward instead. The foothills near the ruins of Summerhall made a good case as well. There were rabbits and field mice and up in the Lightning Tower was a rookery filled with birds in need of some training. Though, his own training should take priority over relaxation, Beric thought. Lord Selmy's harvest festival was only a few weeks away and all eyes would be on him during the joust. He was still undefeated in the Stormlands and had no intentions of changing this any time soon. Maybe it was an even better idea to set up the rings and quintain and prepare for the tourney.

 

“I recommend you replace it.”

Maester Jeon's voice jolted Beric out of his daydreams and made him sit up straight on the chair. In front of him, a few steps away past the long table, stood Blackhaven's weaver. Orvyl, a short, stocky man with bushy, black hair, apparently awaited an answer to his request. Between the calls of ducks, fish, rabbits and rings, Beric had heard vague whispers about weaving looms and dyes and now he tried to recall what exactly they said.

For a while it was silent, then Maester Jeon leaned closer. “The weaving loom, my lord,” he quietly jogged Beric's memory. “It is old and has seen many repairs and...”

“Replace it then,” Beric sternly cut him off and turned back to Orvyl. “Tell the carpenter to start working on it right away.” His gaze followed the man to the gate and Beric sighed when it opened and he spotted more people waiting for an audience outside. “Does it never end?” He got up from the chair and looked to Maester Jeon. “There is never such a crowd looking to speak to my father.”

“Your father has heard most of their concerns in the past,” the maester replied. “They hope you will consider the requests he turned down.”

“I can see why.” Beric began pacing up and down behind the chairs and the table. “And I don't like the notion that they think I will agree to such petty demands. The only reasonable thing I've heard all morning was the shepherd's request for permission to marry the maid.”

“He has asked before,” Maester Jeon gave back. “The maid was accused of stealing from the cook two years ago. Your father withheld his approval and demanded evidence for or against the deed first.”

Beric stopped behind the maester's chair and glared at him through the backrest. “Two years and nobody came forward, not even the supposed victim of this petty crime. An accusation alone should not be punished.” He looked back to the window and the enticing weather outside, then slowly returned to his own chair. “Maybe she got away with a masterful act of thievery, but if that's the case a husband can lead her back to a more honest path,” he scoffed as he sat down again and sighed with resignation. “How many more are out there? Not counting Anguy in yet another stupid disguise.”

“Two more,” Maester Jeon calmly replied after a brief pause to look over the notes on his scroll. “The silversmith asks for the miners to work faster as he runs low on supplies; a common issue he brings to your father at least once every two or three months. And Septon Wyford, asking for the Smithy's roof to be repaired. This request has been made and approved several times over the past four years.”

Beric thought for a moment, then he got up from his chair again. “Tell the silversmith to pick up an axe if he wants more silver. My mother is still in the Vale with Lady Jiara; the jeweler is in no rush with her designs. And send the builders to replace the sept's roof.” He went around the table and was well on his way to the gate when Maester Jeon's voice held him up.

“Replace the roof?” he echoed in a doubtful tone. “This will take much longer than patching the hole and your father ordered the builders to work on the Shattered Tower before he left. We don't...”

“Then tell them their orders have changed!” Beric, in the middle of the Great Hall, stopped and turned around with an annoyed glare. “How many prisoners are held in the Shattered Tower? Wait, let me guess, at best there are two. The same poachers the same hunters catch every few months in the same woods.” He slowly walked back toward the table. “There is no urgency; the Shattered Tower has been in a state of constant repair for as long as I can remember. No prisoner ever escaped and nor will these two. Replace the sept's roof and spare us from another four years of constant complaints.” Maester Jeon nodded and scribbled on his scroll, Beric breathed out in relief and went to the gate. “I'll be in my chambers,” he said before he opened it. “A week of this has been enough. If there are more petty requests, tell people I will hear them after the tourney at Harvest Hall. And I need you to send a raven for me later.”

 

﴾ _____________________________________________________________________________________ ﴿

 

“What is wrong with you?” Anguy remained in the the open door of the rookery and stared at Beric as if he had proposed to burn down Blackhaven and dance in the ashes. “You held court every day for the past week. Your father does it once or twice in a month. Isn't that what a maester is for, to take care of such things in his lord's absence?”

“That's what an heir is for,” Beric corrected him from the battlement where he leaned on a wall and watched the courtyard below. “People will stop bringing every small quarrel to me once they see I won't give them everything my father denied.”

“Good.” Anguy stepped out of the rookery, pretending to limp and arching his back on the way to Beric's spot by the wall. “Though Ebban the Hunchback still didn't get a chance to speak to his lord. Without permission he can't begin constructions on his pen in the mountains east of Blackhaven. And without that his promising idea of breeding chicken-sized horses will...” He stopped in the middle of the battlement and smirked when Beric shot him a reprimanding glare. “I had to keep myself entertained _somehow_ while you were listening to petty complaints.” He joined Beric on the wall and let his gaze wander to the courtyard where the day's bustle slowly calmed down. “But now your duty is done and we can move on to greener, more entertaining pastures. What are your plans for the time your parents are far away from Blackhaven?”

“I'll train for the tourney at Harvest Hall,” Beric gave back, now in a better mood. “Loras said he'll be attending, so I invited him to...”

“You did what?” Anguy interrupted, seemingly unsure if he had heard that right.

“I sent an invitation to Highgarden two days ago,” Beric replied, puzzled why Anguy stared at him in bewilderment. “Today a raven arrived with Loras' answer, saying he'll be on his way tomorrow. Is it that hard to believe two knights might want to prepare for a tourney together?”

Anguy slowly shook his head and took a deep breath. “I find it hard to believe that _this_ is what you plan to do while your parents are gone.”

“What would you suggest then?” Beric shrugged and watched Stormclaw land on a windowsill of the rookery, curiously twitching its feather tufts and regarding the dusky evening sky.

“Do something wild for once! You're twenty, it's time you move past being the impeccable son. Host a tourney and knight a few lads for no reason! Round up all girls from the settlements and fuck the prettiest one in the Great Hall! Invite everyone to a drinking competition and the last man standing gets to be lord of Blackhaven for a day!” Anguy was overflowing with excitement, his spirits climbed higher with each suggestion. “Start a new war with Dorne or convert to the Drowned God! You can do anything you always wanted to do!”

Beric's eyes followed Stormclaw, taking off from the sill to the purple and orange shades of the evening sky. The owl landed on its favorite spot, across from the battlement on the roof of the barn, and Beric turned back to Anguy. “I always wanted to train with acclaimed knights,” he dryly noted after the brief silence.

Anguy regarded him, aghast and dumbfounded, struggling for words. “But you'd do exactly the same if your father was here,” he then said. “Where's the fun in being lord if you don't make use of your freedom?”

“I wouldn't do the _exact_ same thing,” Beric corrected. “If my father was here, I'd be at Highgarden. Loras invited me after his victory in Lannisport, before I knew my father would be traveling.”

“Sometimes you're just insufferable.” Anguy sighed, but he chuckled. “Guess I'll round up the girls by myself then and see if one of them can drink me under the table.”

 

﴾ _____________________________________________________________________________________ ﴿

 

The sun stood high at midday when Blackhaven's gate opened to welcome the party of Beric's guest. Loras arrived with an escort of guards, dressed in House Tyrell's green and gold colors, his squire Iagan and three pages, the banners of Highgarden streaming in the warm summer breeze. Even without his fanciful armor, studded with sapphires and floral embellishments, Loras easily stood out from the group. He rode a horse Beric had not seen on tourneys, a stallion the color of light golden spring wine with a mane white as snow, and his green riding coat was embroidered with Loras' personal sigil, three golden roses for the third son of House Tyrell.

When the party entered the courtyard Beric was already waiting by the stables, accompanied by Leiff and Blackhaven's master-at-arms. Anguy could snicker on his fence all he wanted if he found this welcome unnecessary and dull. It was proper, it was knightly, it was exactly what Beric wanted to do. And judging by Loras' grand entrance, the effort was appreciated, perhaps even expected.

“Where's the raven? The one that brought me your letter.” Loras jumped off his stallion and almost absently gave Beric a hug for a greeting while looking up to the towers. “I need to knight the marvelous creature that brought me an invitation to live in freedom for a few weeks.”

Beric laughed and nodded to the Lightning Tower, overlooking the southeastern mountains. “In the rookery, I presume,” he gave back. “You'd have to ask the maester which bird it was though.”

Loras let go of him and flipped the long, auburn locks over his shoulders. “Birds look all the same to me, to be honest.” He smirked and stretched to limber up after the long ride through the Dornish Marches and the Red Mountains. “I'll just knight them all.”

Hearing that, Anguy finally abandoned his lazy post on the fence and came closer, leaving the work and the horses of the Tyrell party to the stable boys. “You hear that?” He triumphantly grinned at Beric. “Even the most chivalrous knight of the realms sometimes lets loose. You should give my suggestions to pass the time of your father's absence a second thought.”

“Show Iagan and the pages their chambers,” Beric turned to Leiff, ignoring Anguy and his stubborn remark. “This is Rudger Cadenly, our master-at-arms,” he then introduced the man behind him to Loras. “He'll take your guards to the Captain's Tower, there's room for them in the barracks. And for us, there are some refreshments in the Great Hall. You probably want a drink after the long ride through the mountains.”

Loras nodded, still looking around on the courtyard, then his eyes rested on Anguy. “I do indeed,” he said. “And I'd be interested in hearing those suggestions. Having no watchful father loom over us is a rare opportunity and we should make the most of that chance.”

Anguy's grin immediately grew wider at that. “That's what I've been telling him all week!” he gave back, relieved and excited. “Yet all his plans would find his father's approval. And it would be such a waste of a chance to do nothing scandalous at all, don't you think?”

“I'm already doing something 'scandalous' right now, by talking to you.” Loras laughed as they crossed the yard to the gate of the Great Hall. “My father wants me to spend my time with knights and nobles. He can't do anything about it if I befriend commoners, but he sure doesn't like it and says it's 'not proper'. Yet if my sister spends her days in the poorhouse or orphanage, that's alright with him because it improves the public opinion and makes us look generous.” He rolled his eyes, both annoyed and amused at his father's strange perception.

“Just buy me some wine and we'll call it 'charity'.” Anguy grinned and pushed the gate open. “I'm also exceptionally well-behaved for a man of low birth. Put me in the right fancy robes and I'll pass as a noble.”

“For a time,” Beric firmly added. “And if the nobles you're fooling are as drunk as you are.”

“You have no proof for that.” Anguy waited for Loras and Beric to enter the Great Hall, pleasantly cool compared to the dry summer heat out in the yard, then followed them inside and let the gate fall shut behind them. “We only tried it once on Blacktyde. Next time we visit the Reach, we'll swap clothes and you'll see how masterful my disguise can truly be.”

“That's hardly a challenge.” Loras chuckled and went closer to the table and the trays with small cakes of lemon and orange, fresh bread and a selection of ales and wines. “If you flatter my father enough, he'll believe you're a prince from Volantis.”

Beric skeptically raised his eyebrow and sat down on one of the tall, wooden chairs. “You shouldn't speak of your father like that,” he noted, then paused when Loras just laughed.

“I only state facts,” he said and sat down next to Beric. “My grandmother tried to prove a point to him a few years ago. She said my father should pay more attention who he does business with, after a trade with merchants from Braavos went sour.” He reached for a bottle of sweet, red wine and a lemon cake, then after a brief moment of hesitation, an orange cake found the way to his plate as well. “During a festival a few weeks later, my grandmother introduced 'Alfonson III. Guillard' to my father, a 'merchant prince from Volantis' who sought to trade fruit for spices. My father happily struck a deal with the man on the first evening. On the second day, my grandmother revealed 'Alfonson' to be Alfons, a merchant from Oldtown who had picked up some fancy words from visitors of the Citadel near his store.”

“I'll fool your grandmother then.” Anguy smirked while filling first Beric's and then his own glass with wine. “That sounds more like a challenge for a master of deception such as myself.”

“That sounds 'impossible'.” Loras laughed and drank some sips. “Nobody fools my grandmother, no matter how good your disguises may be. My father turns a blind eye very often, but there's nothing in all of the Reach that escapes my grandmother. She'll know of your plans before you are even near Highgarden. She'll probably have her own disguise when you arrive and fool you into thinking she's a senile Silent Sister.”

“I have a keen eye myself.” Anguy furtively regarded Loras from the corner of his eye. “You're here because the rumors are true and you are Beric's secret lover, aren't you?”

Beric froze, the hand with his orange cake hovered above the plate as he struggled for words. What in the world was Anguy thinking? Was he really that keen on stirring up trouble? A short while ago, Beric had thought nothing could ruin his day. The requests from Blackhaven's citizens had died down, the weather was perfect for training and diversions, and he had looked forward to finally practice with someone able to teach some new tricks. Yet Anguy just had to have his 'scandal' and disgruntle their honored guest by bringing up rumors like this.

 

While Beric frantically tried to find words to alleviate the awkward situation, Loras didn't seem fazed by the question at all. He chewed his cake, drank a sip from his wine, then calmly looked over to Anguy. “Maybe that's why my father warns me about spending too much time with commoners,” he said, his voice carrying boredom rather than outrage or annoyance. “He has a point when he says they don't understand knightly vows and the code of honor we live by.” Anguy looked puzzled now, he had certainly expected a stronger reaction to his provocation and Loras didn't deliver at all. “You know, it's not the first time I hear those 'rumors' you speak of,” he continued, casually swishing the wine in his glass. “Well, first time someone claims _he_ is my lover, I give you that.” He chuckled and nodded to Beric who still blankly stared at Anguy. “But according to rumors, I bedded every squire, every knight I ever trained with, every opponent I faced on the lists. Also every lass not named Tyrell, mind you, people are not too picky about their accusations.” He laughed and put an arm around Beric's shoulder to pull him closer. “People just can't fathom handsome men like us have their standards and swore their knightly oaths to abstain from sinful behavior. I'm sure you heard your share of it.”

Beric quickly nodded and reached for his glass. “I have,” he gave back, somewhat more composed now. “He asks every time I return from a tourney how many bastards I fathered...” He drank and shot a reproachful side glance to Anguy. “No matter how many times I tell him the answer is 'none'.”

Loras laughed and took another bite from his cake. “If we'd bed every willing woman, the Night's Watch would have to build a new castle to house all the bastards we'd have to send there. It really is for the best if we keep up our oath, otherwise Lord Stark might accuse us of trying to take over the North.”

Anguy quietly grumbled into his piece of cake, confused why his bold question hadn't had the desired effect. “There goes my last hope for Beric doing something 'scandalous' for once,” he sighed and stuffed the rest of the cake into his mouth.

“I'm sure we'll find less sinful distractions.” Loras chuckled and picked up his second cake. “I've heard about the birds you use for hunting. It's been years since I went hunting in peace.” He appraisingly regarded Beric, sat up straight and tried to look stern. “'You don't need practice with spears or bows! Get back to your training!” he mocked his father's demeanor and voice. “So what do you say? We'll hit each other with swords for a while, then you show me those famed birds and what they can do. I've seen some fat ducks by the streams at the foothills this morning. Wouldn't mind eating one of them later tonight.”

 

﴾ _____________________________________________________________________________________ ﴿

 

Beric thoughtfully looked over to Loras from the back of his father's name day gift, a charcoal black stallion with a silvery-grey mane. Loras was back on his golden-white stallion and watched with child-like amazement how Duskwind, the most affable of Blackhaven's five falcons, landed on the thick leather glove. After the training, they had saddled the horses to ride down to the Widow's Streams and hunt for ducks. It was cooler down here by the foothills and the summer air was less dry.

“Can I ask you something?” Beric broke the peaceful silence after a while.

“Sure, ask away.” Loras shrugged and inspected the falcon on his arm closer. “I asked you so much in the past hour, and I'll probably have more questions before I fully understand how to train birds. It's only fair that you get your turn.”

Beric swallowed and carefully considered his words, then he thought back to Anguy's bold statement and Loras' withheld reaction and took a deep breath. “I've been wondering since we talked in the Great Hall,” he began. “Does your father really not know about you and Renly?”

“Oh, he knows.” Loras still didn't mind answering such precarious questions, he was distracted with feeding a piece of meat to the bird.

“And he does not object?” Beric inquired. “He seems to be very concerned with public perception. I'd have thought even rumors would bother him.”

“He approves.” Loras chuckled and looked up from his preoccupation. “I know, it's hard to believe when he so often looks a fool compared to my grandmother or even my sister. He isn't as bad as it sometimes seems. I complain more than he deserves, to be honest. Other men would have sent a wayward, third son like me to the Wall or forced him to become a septon or maester.”

“Thoros says the king doesn't care about Renly's affairs because he is the third son.” Beric shot a quick glance to his hawk, hovering high in the air above him and waiting for a signal. “Is that your father's reason as well? It doesn't matter to him because you're so far down the line of succession?”

Loras shook his head and turned his eyes back from Beric's hawk to the falcon. “Not at all,” he replied. “But I'm glad to hear His Grace will leave us peace. That's part of the plan, I need him to like me.” He took a new piece of meat from the pouch of his belt and waited for the bird to take it. “My father gains more from keeping quiet than he can lose through some outrageous rumors,” he continued. “He always wanted a kingsguard in the family. My grandmother planted the thought in his head that it's the best path for me. I don't even think he was angry when he found out about my preference. In his first shock, perhaps, but after grandmother spoke to him, he seemed even excited.”

“How did he find out?” Beric stretched his back to see if the hound really stood still to signal the presence of prey in the shrubbery it had circled. A short moment and a barely audible whistle later, the hawk darted toward the hound's position. “I assume you didn't just tell him one day.”

“You assume right,” Loras gave back, quietly laughing. “Margaery did. She caught me kissing another squire when I was fourteen. She wouldn't have cared too much, but this was a boy she had an eye on herself. Furious that I 'stole her future husband', she ran to tell father and asked him to punish me. But instead, he lectured her about spreading lies and not showing enough respect for her brothers.” He paused when the hawk descended on its prey and the shrubbery rustled and shook, concealing the fight taking place in it. “So Margaery went to grandmother to find some means of vengeance. She was always grandmother's favorite and wasn't accused of lying by her, but she still didn't get her revenge. Grandmother took me aside to ask if it was true and I confessed right away, after seeing the squire I kissed leave her chambers on my way there. He looked both crushed and relieved, so I knew he had already told her the truth and got away with a slap on the fingers.”

“And she told your father then?” Beric concluded.

Loras nodded, now watching the hawk return to the horses, with the hound carrying a dead duck not far behind. “She prefaced it with the prospect of me becoming a kingsguard. I was already very skilled with my sword and had found success in jousting tourneys for squires, so it was easy to capture my father's imagination.” He sighed with slight resignation. “So my father became obsessed with the thought and pushed me to train harder and harder. Of course, I didn't want to disappoint him. I was grateful he didn't send the squire away and just let us be, on the condition we trained night and day. I thought I was fine with it, I trained a lot to begin with. But being forced to do nothing else took a toll on me after a while. When I couldn't stand the dull routine anymore without going mad, I begged grandmother to talk to my father again. She knew I loved jousting more than anything else and convinced him to send me to more tourneys. I guess it helped to remind him that many kingsguards are highly regarded for their skill with the lance.”

“Not Ser Meryn Trant.” Beric chuckled and dismounted the horse to inspect the prey the hound had brought back.

“Not Ser Meryn.” Loras laughed and peered over to see the spoils of the hunt as well. “It's a double-edged sword that I turned out to come after Ser Barristan and Ser Jaime, at least for my father. He still wants me to join the kingsguard, but he's also very enamored with the fame I found on the lists. Now his loyalties are divided and he can't decide what he wants more, the white cloak on my shoulders or the admiration on tourneys.” He looked up to the hawk, standing still in the air over Beric again, apparently waiting for its master to finish what he was doing. “I almost forgot,” Loras added. “I am to relay my father's thanks to you for the invitation.”

Beric closed the saddlebag after storing the duck and turned around with a quizzical expression. “Why does it matter to him where you train?” he asked, then sent the hound back to the streams with a wave of his hand.

“He has pushed me to practice my jousting skills lately,” Loras replied with a slight shrug. “His priorities change with the weather. Last year at this time he wanted me to get better with axes, a few months ago he suggested I train with a hammer. Yet somehow he's always surprised if I fall behind in regards to swordsmanship and am bested with ease by my brother. When I told him about your invitation, he said it must have become truly dire. He was relieved to hear a knight from a realm so famed for its warriors took pity on me and decided to whip me into shape.”

“I didn't get the impression you were out of shape earlier, but we can let him believe it if it puts his mind at ease.” Beric laughed and climbed back on his horse. “Keep an eye on the hound,” he added once he was in the saddle. “The next rabbit or duck is yours.” Loras nodded and leaned to the side to see the hound better as it sniffed around between reeds and rushes. Beric finally held out his arm and the hawk descended to take its spot on the glove. “Do you really want to become a kingsguard?” Beric looked back to Loras. “Or is it something you're only going along with to please your father?”

“Not at first,” Loras said, his eyes firmly fixed on the hound in the distance. “It sounded boring to me to do nothing all day but guarding the king. There aren't a whole lot of dangers in the Red Keep and I wanted to see the world rather than just the throne room.”

“Funny how that's why I considered to aim for the Kingsguard.” Beric reached to the pouch on his belt to reward his bird with a piece of meat. “I saw it as a great honor, of course, but I also liked that there is little uncertainty in this position. I'd always know where I belong, I thought. It was more comforting than having to look for my place in the world by myself.” He gave Loras an encouraging nod when the hound stood still by a patch of tall rushes.

Loras threw Duskwind high in the air and watched as the bird went straight for the rushes and dove down onto the invisible prey hidden in them. “That is what I came to realize,” he said, twisting his neck in an attempt to see what the falcon had found. “Now I do truly want to join the kingsguard one day, Renly opened my eyes about it. He'll marry Margaery, I'll guard his brother. The rumors will die down, we'll all live a lie and it will look disgustingly happy and honorable to the public.” He sneered, then paused, and his expression turned into excitement when the hound emerged from the shrubs with a duck. “Margaery's idea,” he added, his voice now more cheerful. “A match from the king's bloodline was what it took to make her forgive me for kissing the boy she liked when she was fifteen. In the end, we'll all get what we want. My sister can further her political ambition, my father gets the kingsguard he dreams of and I will finally be free from his perpetual nagging.” He jumped off the horse when the hound put the duck down next to it and picked the prey up to inspect it.

“This probably sounds really strange to you,” Beric thoughtfully said after a moment of silence. “Somehow I envy you for having this kind of clarity and direction.”

Loras looked up and regarded Beric with bewilderment. “You're right,” he plainly gave back. “That sounds very strange indeed. I envy you for the freedom to do what you want and I can't imagine why you wouldn't be grateful for it.”

“I _am_ grateful,” Beric quickly corrected. “But it took me a long time to appreciate the freedom to find my own way. My father never told me what he expected of me and I couldn't figure out what would make him proud. To me it felt like a burden that I could do no wrong, as strange as it sounds.”

After storing the duck in his saddlebag, Loras climbed back on his horse and looked around for the falcon, just to find it hovering over his head. “Guess the grass does always look greener on the other side,” he said, laughing. “Now let's go back to Blackhaven and show Anguy the spoils of our 'dull diversion'. I'm sure he'll change his mind when he smells a honey-glazed roast.”

 

﴾ _____________________________________________________________________________________ ﴿

 

The sky wore the colors of a lazy afternoon, bright blue ragged with the white of puffy clouds, when Beric descended the steps from the rookery to the yard. Rudger Cadenly instructed the pages in the use of round shields outside the barn. Further back, by the Northern wall, Anguy overlooked Leiff and Iagan's training at archery with the demeanor of a strict, albeit not entirely sober teacher. It was anyone's guess why a squire would need trick shots aimed at the sky, but Anguy and the boys seemed well-entertained nonetheless. Loras lay stretched out on his back, balancing across the stone basin of a fountain, one hand dangling in the cool, rushing water, the other almost losing grasp of a bottle of ale.

“You should be lord more often.” Loras smirked and blinked against the bright sun when he opened one eye upon hearing Beric approach. “I like the way you whip me into shape.” He sat up on the edge of the basin to take a pull from his bottle, only to find there was merely a small drop left in it.

“Aye, you clearly made progress,” Beric gave back, following Anguy's example and trying to mimic a stern master-at-arms. “Though your father would probably give me the whip if he saw our training.”

Loras laughed, dropped his empty bottle next to the basin and eyed the open door to the kitchen near the gate of the Great Hall. “It doesn't hurt your success on the lists to take days off for fishing or hunting,” he said. “And you can't deny that we won great victories yesterday. It's quite impressive that we defeated Ser Trout and Ser Salmon unarmed.”

“That is true.” Beric earnestly nodded. “I'm also sad to inform you that Ser Salmon succumbed to his injuries early this morning. The kitchen prepared a feast in his honor, with the deceased as the main course. Roasted, with a sauce of white wine and served with sliced scallions.”

“A very tasteful way to go.” Loras got up from the basin and waved Iagan, Leiff and Anguy over, signaling it was time for a break and their supper. “It's not like we're savages and eat the hearts of our enemies raw.” He shot a glance at his sword, leaned against the fountain, then huffed and shook his head. “No point in taking it,” he said and shrugged. “I'm too bad a swordsman to be of any use if Ser Salmon's bannermen seek us out for revenge.”

“Not for long.” Beric smirked on their stroll to the gate of the Great Hall. “Ser Corvus of the Blackfeather returned from King's Landing, carrying a message from Thoros. His Grace got tired of the visitors from Pentos and left them to Stannis. Thoros is on the way to Blackhaven and will arrive in a few days. If you're drunk enough by then he can certainly teach you some new tricks with swords.”

 


	27. Borrowed Plumes

Harvest Hall, the seat of House Selmy, resembled a bee hive more than a keep, surrounded by swaying fields of golden wheat. Some fields, those farther away from the tourney grounds, had already been harvested. Small, white tents, abandoned for the time of the tourney, lined paths in the distance, waiting for the return of the farmhands who now buzzed around between the pavilions of knights and stalls of merchants. Bright blue cornflowers and fields of poppies against the silhouette of the Red Mountains near the tourney grounds were reminiscent of the blooming Reach rather than the rugged landscape of the Stormlands. The air was filled with the scent of freshly baked bread and minstrels competed for the audience's attention before the upcoming joust drew the crowd to the list and bookmakers' booths.

 

“Thank you so much! This is just what I needed!” Margaery smiled sweetly when Anguy brought her a new cup of wine. “Maybe you could do me another small favor...?”

“That depends on the favor, my lady.” Anguy toasted to her with his own cup and smirked. “Winning archery competitions is not as easy as I make it look. It takes a little motivation to do something other than sit on my arse and drink away my spoils.” Margaery giggled, drank a sip and leaned closer to whisper in his ear, too hushed for bystanders to understand a word over the music and chatter on the tourney grounds of Harvest Hall.

“Your lady is flirting with a commoner,” Thoros dryly informed Renly.

Renly shrugged and kept looking to the pavilions on the other side of the fence and the list. “She always had a charitable vein,” he gave back, unimpressed.

“Perhaps you should display some jealousy,” Thoros suggested. “I hear it's the appropriate thing to do in such situations.” He reached for a jug, ornate with subtle wheat stalks, and refilled his cup with wine, then leaned back in his chair.

Now Renly turned around and left his spot on the fence to join the rest of the group on the table. “Appropriate maybe, but entirely unnecessary,” he said with an air of importance. “We just have a special kind of trust in each other that makes constant reassurance of our feelings redundant.” He sat down on a chair next to Thoros and put his empty cup on the table to have it refilled. “See? That doesn't look like I have any reason to worry.” He smiled and nodded to Anguy and Margaery while Thoros poured wine into his cup.

When Thoros put the jug down and looked over, he had to do a double take. It was Anguy who looked mildly shocked and struggled for words, Margaery still smiled brightly and nonchalantly sipped from her wine. “Isn't it a tempting idea?” she asked, threw a brief glance over her shoulder, then turned back around to beam at Anguy.

“It is,” he undecidedly gave back. “That's quite a lot of good wine you're offering, my lady. But I fear I wouldn't have a chance to enjoy it. If two knights were to be found dead on a tourney, their heads pierced with arrows, the winner of the archery contest would certainly be the first suspect. And I don't think I can run fast enough to escape justice with a barrel of Arbor Gold under my arm.”

“You could do it after the tourney!” Margaery batted her eyelashes in an attempt to win her would-be assassin over. “I know which way they take home. All you have to do is find a good spot to hide and...” She broke off when she noticed Renly's amusement. “You could have told me they'd be here,” she said with a pout. “I managed to evade them for months, yet here they are, making up for the lost time with twice the impertinence.”

Renly's gaze followed Margaery's across the fence and the list to the colorful tents. Ser Elyor and Ser Lilias stood outside their pavilion and chatted with one of their squires while the other boy was busy carrying parts of armor to them. “Have some faith in your brother,” Renly calmly replied and took a sip from his wine. “He trained at Blackhaven with Beric for weeks and...”

“Loras knocked that oaf off his horse before,” Margaery cut him off. “It never taught Ser Elyor any manners. When I was talking to Lady Caron, he had the audacity to interrupt our conversation and tell me he and his cousin will bet on Loras in every tilt unless it's their own. 'Because they look forward to seeing a Reach knight show the Stormlands true skill'.” She poured down the rest of her wine. “You should take some offense,” she added when she put the cup back on the table. “You may reside in the capital now, but these are still your bannermen the Brightfields speak ill about.”

“Let them talk.” Renly chuckled into his wine. “I look forward to seeing their sad attempt at teaching their lesson. You've seen them on countless tourneys. Do you really believe either of them can get past Loras, Beric or Lord Caron?” He laughed and toasted to Thoros who nodded in agreement.

“I don't need visions from the fire to predict the finale.” Thoros returned the toast and emptied his cup. “We will finally get to see the long overdue tilt between Beric and Loras.”

“That would certainly make for interesting bets,” Anguy noted. “They've never faced each other before on the lists.”

“How curious.” Renly drank the last sips from his cup. “I always thought my disinterest in jousting was to blame for me not remembering it. But I would have guessed that it happened, perhaps when they were squires.”

Anguy shook his head. “It almost did, once. There was a tourney for squires, here at Harvest Hall, when Beric was fourteen. He would have faced Loras had the event not been called off due to a bad storm. It was set to take place a few weeks later, but by that time Beric was already at Greenstone with his knight.”

“I recall that.” Renly put the empty cup on the table, waiting for someone to fill it. “Or at least Loras' complaints about it. He was knighted shortly after and missing this tourney cost him some round number of victories as a squire.”

“And you haven't heard half of his nagging.” Margaery laughed, less annoyed now and no longer throwing snide glances to the Brightfield cousins by their tent. “It was the worst storm the Reach had seen in years, it raged all the way from the Stormlands to the Shield Islands. Tourneys were postponed everywhere because the lists turned into knee-deep mud. Loras wanted to travel the long way to Silverhill, the nearest tourney that had not been canceled. I think father went ahead with the ceremony just to shut him up.”

“I always liked the competitions for squires,” Anguy said. “Hitting rings at that speed somehow strikes me as more impressive than knocking men off their horses. Maybe I should wager on Leiff and Iagan tomorrow instead of the joust.”

A roguish smile appeared on Margaery's face, she put down her cup and straightened her back. “I'm actually quite good at hitting rings with a lance myself,” she proudly declared and had a hard time to keep a straight face when all eyes jumped to her. “Or I used to be,” she admitted with a pout. “Growing up with three brothers always seemed unfair to me. I was expected to practice embroidery and polite conversation. Everyone else got to do things that seemed more exciting. Every now and then I snuck away from Septa Laetytia and my brothers let me try my hand at hitting the rings. Of course, I was caught and told it is not proper.” She sighed and rolled her eyes, then the smile returned and she glanced over to Anguy. “Maybe I should pick up archery instead. It's easier to practice in secret when I need only a bow and some arrows, not a horse and a lance...”

“And nobody would suspect a lady if an 'accident' happened to Ser Elyor?” Thoros smirked and reached for the jug to refill empty cups.

Margaery feigned offense and shot him a reproachful glance. “But it would be terrible if something happened to him at Highgarden!” She took her cup, drank a sip, then winked at Anguy. “However, there are many small groves in Reach that look so peaceful people keep underestimating how treacherous they can be. It's probably because they are so secluded and bandit attacks draw less attention out there.” After another sip, she looked back to Thoros. “But let us not speak of such horrible things, not on a wonderful day like this. I really enjoy this tourney. It offers so many diverse distractions! An archery competition for the hunters today, tomorrow the squires can show their skill. At home, it's all about jousting and I can only nod and smile for so long when knights brag to me about their prowess.”

“I agree.” Renly took his cup from the table, but didn't drink right away. “I like the relaxed nature of this festival, one round per day is all the jousting I need. What does a good harvest have to do with knocking men off their horses? It was much more entertaining to see the bakers present their attempts at baking the largest loaf of bread.” He looked to the list; a herald dressed in House Selmy's colors had appeared and undecidedly strolled up and down. “Though I admit, I'm all for beginning the joust. For once I'm excited about the expected finale.”

“My bets are made as well.” Thoros nodded and turned his chair to see the list better. The presence of the herald suggested the first round was about to begin.

“Who will you place your bets on if you get your finale between Beric and Loras? I find it incredibly hard to pick.” Anguy appraisingly regarded Thoros, but instead he got his answer from Renly.

“So do we.” Renly laughed and sipped from his wine. “I never paid enough attention to make a prediction, Thoros knows too much to decide. So I bet Loras will make it to the final round and Thoros bets Beric will. If only one of us wins, he'll put his winnings on whoever made it to the finale. If we both win, we pay our debt by putting the coins on the other's pick.”

“We'll win either way,” Thoros added. “The finale merely decides which of us buys the rounds later that night.” He paused when the herald finally stopped pacing and took his position in front of Lord Selmy's chair. “And maybe you get your vengeance in the first tilt, my lady. Ser Elyor cursed quite a bit during the draw when it was announced he will face your brother in the first bout.”

 

﴾ _____________________________________________________________________________________ ﴿

 

“An excellent showing against Ser Gabriel Ashford, I was truly impressed.” Loras toasted to Beric with an earnest expression, then took a swig from his wine. “I can't wait for your tilt against Lord Caron today. He has quite a reputation as a tough opponent and is feared by many all over the Reach.”

“I wish I could give back the compliment,” Beric replied, returning the toast. “But I don't need to tell you that even a senile cripple could unseat Ser Elyor and would only need one or two more passes than you.”

Loras dramatically sighed and nodded. “I know, I know, just my luck. First him and in the next round I'll face his cousin. At least Set Lilias has _some_ sense of balance, so hopefully it won't be too easy. I'm afraid it might look like I'm not even trying to put on a good show.”

Renly rolled his eyes with amusement. “Don't you ever tire of praising each other?” He emptied his cup, got up from his chair and turned to Margaery. “Care to take a look at the merchant stands and leave those overgrown children to their bragging? I saw a bow maker set up shop earlier. Maybe we find a bow suited for the hands of a lady.”

Margaery looked up with some surprise. “Why would I want to leave now? I'm well-entertained by this conversation about Ser Elyor's embarrassment in the first round!”

“I'll join you.” Anguy glanced up and found his annoyance mirrored in Renly's eyes. “If you really want to buy a bow for your lady, I can probably help you picking the right one.”

“I might just buy a bow for myself.” Renly went around the table and waited for Anguy to finish his wine. “And I might shoot those two Brightfield buffoons with it, just so I won't have to hear about their latest audacity anymore.”

That remark got his lady's attention. Margaery immediately directed her beaming smile at him and jumped up from her chair. “In that case, let me join you,” she cheerfully said and linked her arms with Renly and Anguy.

Thoros chuckled when he heard her inquire if they could train at Blackhaven after the festival when the trio left toward the merchants' area. “Looks like I have to play the cup bearer for now,” he noted and shook the jug to make sure it was really empty. “At least until the squire competition is over. We can't drag Leiff and Iagan away from their preparation, otherwise Anguy will blame us if the boys don't win and he loses his bets.”

Beric threw a quick glance over his shoulder, then looked back to Thoros. “It should begin soon,” he said. “Ser Tymon Sorrey just wished his squire good luck a few moments ago.”

“I don't see the herald yet,” Thoros gave back and got up. “And it would be a shame if you had to drink to your victories with empty cups.”

 

﴾ _____________________________________________________________________________________ ﴿

 

When Thoros returned with the wine, the competition had still not begun, but a small crowd had gathered around the table. From the distance, he could see Loras and Beric were standing and the clamor of voices sounded like an argument was about to break out. Thoros hurried as he recognized the Brightfield cousins among the people around the table, but he breathed out in relief when he came closer and saw no swords had been drawn. The confrontation was also not as unfair as it had looked at first sight. Most of the men didn't appear to have taken a side in the matter and merely watched and listened as the quarrel unfolded.

“You have a pretty big mouth for a man who couldn't stay on his horse if he was nailed to the saddle,” Thoros heard Loras snarl at Ser Elyor, probably in response to a previous insult. “How many times do I have to embarrass you before you stop pretending to be a knight and live out the rest of your life as a farmer?”

“You defeated men like Barristan Selmy and Gregor Clegane,” Ser Elyor barked back. “I have no reason to be ashamed about my loss. You, on the other hand, sully the reputation of every knight in the Reach by keeping such company! If I had lost to _him_ I would have reason to worry!” He glared at Beric, trying to be intimidating, to no avail.

“Sometimes I wonder,” Beric calmly gave back and appraisingly regarded his would-be opponent. “Is it really Lady Margaery you're trying to woo? You seem to act jealous whenever you see me with Loras.”

Thoros quietly laughed to himself and stayed behind the first row of spectators. Ser Elyor and his cohort looked both angry and dumbfounded and it was refreshing to see Beric so cocky for once instead of backing down out of worry for his reputation. Loras had certainly been a good influence in that regard. Some of his undeterred confidence had finally rubbed off on Beric. Back in Highgarden, Beric had weighed every word twice in a stupor of awe and worried that a famed knight like Loras would get a wrong impression of him. Now there was nothing left of such concerns. Loras had finally convinced Beric that they were equals and they acted as such; a well-attuned team trying to provoke the Brightfields into throwing the first punch. If they were uncouth and dumb enough to start a brawl, Loras and Beric could only win. There were several guards of House Selmy nearby, all of which had heard Ser Elyor's opinion about the 'lack of skill in the Stormlands'. The verbal exchange had also drawn the attention of Ser Tymon Sorrey. On the first day of the festival, Ser Lilias had loudly declared that it was a shame for a Reach boy to squire for an 'old, toothless dog from the woods'. He was obviously referring to Ser Tymon's squire, Rayner Rowan of Goldengrove, who had been fostered at Mistwood and was expected to stay in House Mertyns' service after receiving his knighthood. His knight, Ser Tymon, was far from a young buck, but he was nowhere near as toothless as Ser Lilias claimed. His position near the table made clear he sided with Loras and Beric, and Thoros could see that his hand hovered above the hilt of his sword.

“I'm afraid I'm as receptive to Ser Elyor's advances as my sister,” Loras made use of their opponents' momentary confusion. “She prefers the Lord Paramount of the Stormlands to any knight of the Reach. Maybe I should follow her example and find myself a lady to wed while I'm here.”

This thought was too much for Ser Lilias. “Do you have no pride in your heritage at all?” he yelled and made a step toward Loras. “First you have the audacity to show up here with a pack of heathens and wizards and now...” He broke off and just angrily huffed when three guards grabbed him and dragged him away from the table, all three of them smirking and satisfied Ser Lilias had finally given them a reason to step in.

“Do you think _that_ is why they never make it far on the lists?” Beric turned to Loras, pretending to ponder what Ser Lilias had said. “Maybe they were cursed by our wizard and it's not their fault that they can barely stay on a horse.”

Ser Elyor looked around, frothing and trembling with anger, yet wary of the waiting guards and Ser Tymon whose hand was now firmly wrapped around the hilt of his sword. “No wonder your boys come to the Stormlands to squire,” he poured oil into the fire. “If clods like you trained them, they'd never become capable warriors!” The guards couldn't hide their amusement when Ser Elyor lost the last bit of composure and tried to draw his sword at Ser Tymon, just to promptly be grabbed by the arms and dragged away to cool off his temper.

The crowd scattered when the spectacle was over and many headed straight for the bookmaker's booth to make or raise their bets for the next round of the joust. Some people had voiced disappointment that it had not come to a brawl, but it only increased the anticipation. The draw pitted Loras against Ser Lilias and Beric would face Lord Bryce Caron of Nightsong; the finale would see the Stormlands clash with the Reach either way.

Thoros sat down and placed the new jug on the table, then filled four cups, since Beric and Loras were talking to Ser Tymon, inviting him to share a drink before the squire contest began.

 

“Someone should teach those arrogant pricks some manners,” Ser Tymon said and raised his cup to a toast. “They act like they're stuck in the Age of Heroes and don't know the Storm Kings and Gardener Kings are long gone.”

“Maybe nobody told them.” Thoros chuckled and took a swig from his wine. “I doubt they have the wits to figure it out all by themselves.” He glanced to Loras. “Maybe you should tell them you are Loras I. Gardener and order them to raise ten men, take Storm's End and free your captive sister.”

“Maybe I should indeed,” Loras gave back. “But I'll wait and give Renly I. Durrandon some time to hone his archery skills. It wouldn't be proper if the king let his captive princess shoot the would-be invaders. In the meantime Ser Lilias' preoccupation with the savage company I keep should make him easy pickings in the next round.”

Beric drank a sip and leaned back in his chair with a sigh. “I truly envy you,” he said, looking to Loras. “I wish I could teach the Brightfields their lessons and get back at them for insulting my squire. You're lucky the gods favored you once more in the draw. Lord Caron does not care who will be pitted against him, but Ser Lilias would certainly be more embarrassed if a lowly, unskilled brute from the Red Mountains defeated him and...” He paused and turned around when the voice of a herald finally announced that the squires' competition was about to begin.

“There will be a next time for young bucks like you.” Ser Tymon got up from his chair and waited for Loras, Beric and Thoros to follow before he went over to the fence by the list. “And I have a feeling our squires will claim their vengeance as well. Ser Lilias' squire has already proven bad aim when he chose his knight, I'd be surprised if he did any better now.” He quietly laughed to himself and nodded to the group of squires walking up to Lord Selmy for their introductions. “I bet quite a few coins on Rayner's victory and promised to knight him within three months if he wins.”

Both Loras and Beric immediately turned to Thoros when they heard bets mentioned, glaring at him with furtive eyes. “Same amount on both,” Thoros answered the unspoken question and smirked. “Just like my bets for the joust.” He poured down his wine and laughed when both still demandingly stared at him after the unsatisfactory answer. “This isn't a good time to break old habits,” he added. “Maybe tomorrow, if you both make it to the finale.”

 

﴾ _____________________________________________________________________________________ ﴿

 

“In a way they are funny.” Renly leaned back in his chair without taking his eyes of the distant table where the Brightfield cousins sat and licked their wounds. “I'm almost surprised they didn't tuck their tails and went home after such a bitter defeat.”

Ser Tymon roared with laughter and toasted vaguely in the direction of his squire who stood at the booth of an armorer and chatted with the apprentice. “To Ser Rayner Rowan!” he shouted, loud enough to be heard at the tables on the opposite side of the list.

“To my brother!” Margaery added and raised her own cup. “And to unseating Ser Lilias in a way that battered his silly, blue helmet!”

“And to Beric!” Renly and Thoros almost said it in the same breath. “Lord Caron was said to be the toughest opponent in the entire tourney,” Renly continued. “His defeat certainly reshuffled the deck for the bets in the finale.”

“Aye, let's go with that.” Thoros laughed, glanced to the bookmaker's booth where a large crowd had gathered, then toasted and poured down his wine. “Might be a bit early for celebrating his unbroken victory streak when he still has to face Loras later today.”

Anguy pricked up his ears at that remark and appraisingly regarded Thoros from the side. “So you don't really have a favorite?” he concluded. “You just let them think you favor one over the other?” He laughed and took a swig from his wine. “Do you have any idea how hotly debated that subject is when you're not around? They discussed it at least once a day before you arrived at Blackhaven.”

Thoros slowly raised his eyebrows and turned to Anguy. “I have a favorite today,” he declared with an air of importance. “And as luck would have it, my agreement with Renly reflects that.”

All eyes jumped to him, the expressions ranged from disbelief to utter shock, with the exception of Ser Tymon who only seemed puzzled by the reactions around him. “You really favor Loras?” Anguy finally managed to get out. “What makes you think he will defeat Beric? Is it his recent victory over Gregor Clegane and Barristan Selmy?”

“You can't compare them,” Ser Tymon interjected. “Both are taller and heavier, it takes a different approach. Defeating them is no measure for the skill needed against a man of similar stature.” He decidedly shook his head and took a sip from his cup. “I'm too attached to my coins to make a wild guess in the finale and from all I've seen that's what it comes down to.”

“Understandable.” Thoros thoughtfully nodded while watching the herald walk down the list. “It could go either way, but that's the fun of wagers.” He looked to Anguy. “It's just a hunch.”

“I have a hunch, too.” Renly chuckled and turned his chair a bit toward the list. “And my hunch says you know more than you tell us. I don't mind matching your bet and maybe it's my duty to favor a son of the Stormlands, but I admit I'm curious about your mysterious insights.”

Thoros smirked and shrugged, then looked back to the list, his gaze followed Loras on his white-golden horse, the green shield with three golden roses matching the stallion's caparison. “I've seen them train at Blackhaven,” Thoros gave a vague answer. “Got an eye for their form of the day, perhaps.”

“Or you just enjoy rubbing salt in the wounds of the Brightfields.” Margaery laughed and jumped up from her chair. “You know they'd bet all they have on my brother's victory if they could.”

“Why can't they?” Anguy got up as well. “Did they threaten the bookmakers for accepting bets against them?” He grabbed a bottle of wine from the table and went the few steps ahead to wait by the fence.

“I hear Ser Lilias was lucky Loras left him his horse and his dented armor,” Margaery gave back with a bright smile. “He doesn't have a penny left to make wagers and had to borrow money from his squire to pay for the wine.”

“Loras did?” Renly appreciatively raised his eyebrows and got up, offering an arm to Margaery to lead her to the fence. “He should have started doing so much sooner. Maybe the Brightfields would be too broke to attend tourneys by now and could only bother you when you feed the poor outside the gate.”

The herald had moved on and introduced Beric, waiting in front of Lord Selmy on the back of his charcoal stallion, dressed with a black caparison embroidered with purple stars and silver fringes. Every last visitor of the festival had gathered by the barriers, in some places people still shoved and scrambled for better spots. Ser Elyor and Ser Lilias stood on the opposite side of the list and glared over to Margaery and Renly like generals having second thoughts about a parley with the enemy. When Beric and Loras turned their horses around to take position, Thoros and Ser Tymon got up from the table as well. Over the excited chatter and cheers from the crowd, they could only guess what the Brightfields tried to yell at them.

“Next year will be the fortieth anniversary of my first tilt as a knight,” Ser Tymon noted with amusement. “Yet in all those years, I have never seen such hubris.”

Thoros' gaze followed Ser Tymon's to Ser Lilias and Ser Elyor and he couldn't help but notice a group of guards standing nearby. “But you have to admit, they are persistent in their ignorance of reality,” he replied. “A few years ago, people thought they had a bright future on the lists. Instead of building upon public favor they disgruntled their audience with unfounded bragging and hostile remarks. Yet they still think they are in the same league as Loras and praise his skill to make their losses to him seem less disgraceful.”

 

The first charge made the audience roar and the noise swallowed Ser Tymon's response. This finale was an impressive sight, there was no doubt about that. A clash of night and day, light and darkness; Loras' gemstone-studded armor sparkled bright in the afternoon sun, as did the golden embroidery on his white stallion's caparison, a stark contrast to Beric, all in black with sparse flashes of silver and a purple plume as the only notable touch of color. The swaying blue cornflowers and golden fields and the rugged shape of the Red Mountains painted a vibrant backdrop, worthy of such a spectacular fight.

Harvest Hall had always been a venue for local derbies between the knights of the Stormlands and the Reach, but this year the emotions boiled over more than ever before. The past two festivals had seen victors from Horn Hill and Cider Hall, as Ser Elyor had proudly pointed out to anyone who would listen since the tourney began. On the other hand, some local spectators gave voice to the desire of seeing a man from the Marches restore the honor of the Stormlands. The audience was divided, but it was not a clear line. The opinion who would claim victory for his realm shifted back and forth with each pass. Ser Tymon's prediction had been spot-on, neither combatant had a clear advantage and the spectators appreciated the suspense with cheers and applause.

The last pass still brought no decision and excited whispers of the audience grew louder and louder, until Lord Arstan Selmy arose from his seat. Immediately, breathless silence replaced the murmurs when the host waved for Beric and Loras to approach.

“He can't call it a tie,” Ser Tymon whispered to Thoros. “There'll be a riot if a tilt like this ends without a winner!”

“He won't,” Renly firmly gave back. “If he tries to call it a tie, I'll order him to make a decision. The Lord Paramount wants to know who pays for the wine in the evening, so House Selmy must declare a winner.” He quickly turned back to the list when the riders halted their horses in front of Lord Selmy, a confused-looking herald between them, awaiting instructions from the festival's host.

Hundreds of eyes rested on Lord Arstan Selmy who quietly and appraisingly regarded Beric and Loras for what felt like an eternity, or maybe time just stood still. Then, finally, the herald received a signal when Lord Selmy took a deep breath and slightly nodded in Loras' direction. A murmur went through the crowd once more, discussions were sparked in an instant and immediately died down when Loras ordered his horse to make a step toward the herald, apparently trying to scare the man. It had the desired effect. Instead of announcing the winner, the herald jumped out of the way, looking more irritated than angry when he tried to gather himself a few steps away.

 

Before the herald had a chance to return to his position, the surprise and confusion spread through the spectator ranks. Loras had taken off his helmet, engraved with flowers and adorned with a golden plume, revealing he was not Loras at all. Just as dumbfounded as the audience, Lord Selmy did a double take, only to come to the same conclusion as before; Beric wore Loras' armor and rode his horse. Lord Selmy took another deep breath, then he addressed the still concealed rider. “Are you Ser Loras then?” he asked and received an immediate answer when the dark helmet was taken off and Loras shook long, brown stands of hair out of his face.

Beric tried his hardest to keep a straight face, but almost failed to stifle his laughter when he caught a glimpse of the Brightfields from the corner of his eye. Loras briefly bowed to show his respect to Lord Selmy, then his eyes found Ser Elyor and Ser Lilias at the fence as well and his triumphant smirk was met with unveiled outrage.

“You both should be disqualified!” Ser Elyor shouted, shaking his fist. “How dare you take us for fools with such a foul deception?” He ranted on, joined by his cousin, but the more they talked themselves into a rage, the more their complaints were drowned out by the audience's laughter. Even Lord Selmy apparently had a hard time keeping his composure when Ser Elyor finally demanded to repeat the last tilt in a 'proper manner'.

“Have you worn your disguises every day, in every fight?” Lord Selmy turned back to Beric and Loras. Both nodded, seemingly unconcerned about repercussions. “Then there will not be a repeat! My decision is final!” Lord Selmy declared, not hiding his amusement at the Brightfield cousins staring at him in disbelief. “Find a minstrel!” He waved the confused herald closer. “It appears the tale of my great-uncle hasn't been told to these big-mouthed boors!”

 

﴾ _____________________________________________________________________________________ ﴿

 

“You knew this the entire time?” Renly fished for a slice of roast with his fork, an effort not aided by him looking at Thoros.

“And it never occurred to you to tell us?” Anguy glared over as well when Thoros calmly nodded and eyed a plate with venison pies.

“Should I ever inherit the throne...” Renly paused and regarded Thoros appraisingly. “You'll be my Master of Whispers. I should have known better than trusting a devious wizard when you suggested the arrangement for our bets.”

Margaery rolled her eyes at Renly's attempt to conquer the roast and ended the battle by placing the slice on his plate with her own fork. “It was a delightful surprise,” she said, then took a sip from her wine. “Leaving us in the dark served to embarrass those ill-mannered oafs to a large audience. How could I possibly be angry about such a wonderful ruse?”

“I can assure you these troublemakers will not be welcome here in the future, my lady.” Lord Selmy nodded and toasted to her. “Lord Caron already told them to not dare set foot on his tourney grounds at Nightsong. And I'm sure the tales of their misbehavior will find their way to Ashford as well.” He paused and looked up when Beric and Loras approached the table, followed by Leiff and Iagan. “There you are!” Lord Selmy waved over his servant with more wine. “A toast to your splendid tribute to my great-uncle!”

Ser Tymon was the first to raise his cup to that. “Always refreshing if the young generation honors great deeds of the past!” he cheerfully noted. “Ser Barristan is probably smiling somewhere in the Red Keep as we speak!”

“I'm sure he'll laugh his arse off when he hears about it.” Thoros added some bacon, roasted in honey, to the venison pie on his plate. “As will the king. And I'm sure he'll tell it to your father come the next festival at Highgarden, my lady.” He glanced over to Margaery whose smile became even brighter at the realization.

“That alone was worth the loss.” Loras surveyed the plates and bowls on the table, then decided to start with the baked cinnamon apples. “A new story for them is worth more than gold. And maybe His Grace will finally convince my father that the Brightfields don't belong at our tourneys.” He looked to Beric who quietly laughed into his cup. “I said there won't be hard feelings should I lose, but I didn't expect you to gloat like that.”

“I'm not gloating,” Beric gave back, still chuckling to himself. “I'm just amused that we were worried about getting in trouble for our deception and it turns out everyone finds it delightful.”

“If it had been anyone but you, I might have taken at least some offense about not being told,” Lord Selmy noted. “My great-uncle became Barristan The Bold for disguising himself during a tourney at Blackhaven when he was a boy. He didn't tell anyone about his plans either, so the heir of Blackhaven had every right to leave me in the dark.” He laughed and poured down his wine. “But from now on, I'll make sure everyone is who he says he is before starting a tourney. Who knows, maybe those mouthy Brightfields will try the same trick and enter in disguise, now that a minstrel has educated them about the history of my house.”

“Let them try!” Margaery laughed, slightly shaking her head. “Once this tale gets back to the Reach, every lord will look twice before allowing a 'mystery knight' to enter his tourney.” She leaned over to Loras to kiss him on the cheek. “I'm so happy you stepped up after all! Grandmother will be proud when she hears about this. Or she'll call you a bandit for not only disgracing the Brightfields, but also taking their money.” She shrugged and reached for her wine. “Either way, it will be a compliment in her mind.”

Loras raised an eyebrow and chuckled. “It pains me to disappoint my favorite sister, but taking their gold was not my idea. Beric sent Iagan and some of our guards to make the demand. I only found out about that when they came back to the tent and told me 'I' decided to buy Ser Ethane of the Grassy Vale a new horse.”

All eyes wandered to Beric who just shrugged and smirked. “I thought it was the knightly thing to do after Ser Lilias demanded Ser Ethane's horse after defeating him on the first day. It didn't seem right his time on the lists should end only a few months after he was knighted. Though...” He paused to drink and regarded the Tyrells for a moment. “Your grandmother doesn't need to know. If you prefer to let her think Lady Margaery's charitable vein rubbed off on you...”

“No, no!” Loras laughed and brushed the suggestion aside with a wave of his hand. “I've worn enough borrowed plumes during this tourney.” He glanced to his sister. “We'll tell her that Beric and I came up with that plan together. Close enough to the truth and easier for her to believe than telling her it was my idea alone.”

“And now we can finally drink to Beric's unbroken victory streak!” Thoros declared when a servant refilled the empty cups on the table.

Beric took his wine and leaned closer to Thoros while raising his cup. “And to nobody being able to tell the difference between me and Loras,” he whispered with a proud smirk echoing in his voice.


	28. Summer Rain

The rain pattered heavily on the roof of the Ivy Inn by the Kingsroad. It had been raining ever since they left behind the village of Brindlewood and the weather didn't look like it would change any time soon.

“I see a long, happy marriage in the near future,” Thoros declared while watching the rustling fire in the common room's large hearth. “Not without hardship, but it won't be the fault of the couple.”

“You don't say.” Beric sullenly gnawed on a chicken thigh, not turning around to the fire behind him and instead staring down his mug of ale. “It doesn't take visions from foreign gods to predict that.” He dropped the chicken bone on the plate and reached for the mug. “Everyone knows Lord Fiore is overjoyed to wed Lady Mayda. And of course there'll be hardship for a man who marries a daughter of Lord Walder Frey.”

“You're just grumpy as usual.” Leiff dug his fork into the mushroom pie on his plate and watched the trapped steam emerge from its tasty prison.

“Of course I am grumpy.” Beric emptied his mug and glared to the nearest window. “My father returned from Essos just before the season of storms began. I'm free to escape the bad weather at home and now I'm getting soaked in the Riverlands all the same.”

“Aye, that has to be it. It has nothing to do with your dislike of weddings.” Leiff laughed and shook his head, then took the jug and refilled Beric's mug with fresh ale.“Lord Fiore has every reason to be happy. He's about to wed a lass from the Riverlands and one from a Great House to boot. I'd be just as overjoyed if I was in his position.” He blew on the hot piece of pie on his fork, then took a sip from his ale before putting it into his mouth. “Maybe I'll find a lady for myself at the celebration,” he added, chewing. Beric glared at him over the edge of his mug, but didn't say anything and just took the second chicken thigh from his plate.

“Not the worst place to look,” Thoros said while cutting his spiced lamb rack. “It seems half the Riverlands will be attending the celebration. Lord Frey seems well aware of his luck and wants the realms to know about it.” He dipped the meat in the sauce and glanced across the common room, to the tables filled with travelers seeking shelter from the downpour of summer rain. Many had mentioned that they were on the way to the Twins to attend Lord Fiore's wedding to Lady Mayda. There was a group of men-at-arms on the next table, chatting with a minstrel who had practiced the chords of a wedding song an hour ago. A small table in the corner by the hearth was occupied by two knights of House Rosby, friends of Lord Fiore who had been with him on the tourney in Lannisport. Spread out on bar stools and a nearby long table, several merchants and their assistants voiced predictions which of their goods would sell best at the Twins. Though the Ivy Inn was a week's ride away from the seat of House Frey, the upcoming celebration was on everyone's lips.

“I didn't know Lord Frey was so fond of such events.” Beric undecidedly turned the chicken thigh in his hand. “People say he's stingy, greedy and spiteful. Did that suddenly change over night because of one wedding?”

Thoros chuckled and took a sip from his wine. “I doubt it, but the wedding certainly put him in a good mood,” he said. “I heard even the Night's Watch and some septs told him to stop sending more children, so he's very keen on marrying them off. House Fiore might not be a Great House, but Lord Severyn is the sole heir and his lands are rich and fertile. That's quite a catch if you have too many daughters and Lord Frey's reputation.”

“I never understood that,” Leiff interjected with a thoughtful look on his face. “Why do people look down on Lord Frey? An old bloodline is no achievement, some people are just born lucky in that regard. House Frey gained their status and wealth with hard work and smart decisions. I find that more impressive than sharing blood with some famed ancestor who lived a long time ago.”

Beric shot Leiff an incredulous glance and lowered the chicken thigh instead of taking a bite. “You find it impressive that they made their fortune by charging travelers for crossing their bridge? I admit it was a good thing they built it there, but I hardly call it work to collect tolls.”

Leiff shrugged, chewed his pie and swallowed. “Still a smart thing to do.” He reached for the jug in the middle of the table to refill his mug. “There aren't many Great Houses that don't claim they're descended from legendary heroes and ancient bloodlines. It's an accomplishment in itself they rose to their station without history providing them with such stepping stones. House Frey is the most powerful and influential out of the few houses that achieved it, so they must be doing something right in the end.”

“They are also the most cowardly,” Beric added. “During Robert's Rebellion, the Frey forces only arrived at the Trident when the battle was already won. You don't think that was a coincidence, do you?”

Again, Leiff shrugged. “I know,” he gave back, unconcerned. “Maester Pettro taught me the history of the realms and everyone in the North knows the moniker 'Late Lord Frey'. But I understand why a lord hesitates to send his men into battle. It doesn't compare to a rebellion or war, but my father had to make that decision whenever the wildling attacks were especially ruthless. Everyone knew there wasn't really a choice, the hunters and fishermen had to do their work outside our walls.” He paused and poked around in his pie for a moment. “We also knew there was always a chance some might not come back. And if there had been another way of filling the pantry, my father would not have told them to go.”

“There is a difference.” Beric put the chicken thigh back on his plate and instead took Thoros' wine. “House Frey failed to aid their liege lord in battle. Your hunters...”

“No, it's not different,” Leiff interrupted. “Lord Frey had another way and he chose it. King Robert won at the Trident without those soldiers. It made no difference, except that families under Lord Frey's protection didn't lose their fathers and sons.” Beric was about to reply, but Leiff wasn't done yet. “You've seen how my family lives. You know Lord Bolton doesn't give a damn about us. I have more respect for a coward who looks out for his people than a brave man who is deaf to their needs.”

Beric looked slightly stumped and it took a moment for him to sort out his thoughts. “If you put it that way, I can see where you're coming from,” he admitted after a brief silence. “I've heard enough about Lord Bolton to understand that even a honorless coward looks like a decent man in comparison.”

“They're both nasty buggers.” Thoros took his mug from Beric's hand, found it empty and looked around for new wine. “But between the two of them, Lord Frey is the lesser evil, I agree about that.” He put the mug down and instead took the empty bottle, then waved it at a tavern wench. She nodded while tending the minstrel's table and Thoros put the bottle back down. “At the end of the day, the celebration isn't about Lord Frey though. It's about Lord Fiore and Lady Mayda, neither of them known as cruel or lacking in honor. I'm sure we can overlook Lord Frey's presence and just enjoy the feast and the entertainment.”

 

﴾ _____________________________________________________________________________________ ﴿

 

“Can you really see things in the fire?” Beric didn't look up to the flames in the small hearth of the room. He kept regarding the cyvasse board on the floor, his hand hovering above it, holding the dragon piece, undecided about the next move. “Or do you always make things up like in Lannisport?”

Thoros put down the wine bottle between them and leaned back against the end of the bed. “Sometimes I see things,” he said with a shrug. “Or I think I do. Maybe it's just my vivid imagination.”

Beric's mood had improved even though the rain still drummed on the roof and the wind had picked up, howling around corners and rattling the shutters. “Did you see the long, happy marriage of Lord Fiore earlier then?” he asked and placed the dragon on the board after some more consideration. “Or did you just bring up the wedding to ruffle my feathers?”

“I didn't say I saw Lord Fiore,” Thoros corrected, his gaze jumping back and forth between an elephant and a trebuchet piece. “The couple looked old and they appeared to be happy, but I couldn't make out any details or faces. However, there were towers and something resembling a bridge made of stone. I took it as the Twins, but it could as well be a different castle.” Instead of the pieces he had eyed, Thoros moved a heavy horse, trapping Beric's catapult at a mountain. “Maybe it was just a battlement, not a stone bridge.”

Beric furrowed his brow and reached for the wine while pondering his new situation on the board. “I see,” he absently replied. “You were probably right interpreting it then. Even if gods work in mysterious ways, what would be the point of sending you a vision of strangers?”

“Maybe it was Leiff I saw,” Thoros gave back with a chuckle. “Maybe it was a sign that he'll find his Riverlands lass at the wedding.”

“That would be a good omen indeed.” Beric laughed and moved a spearman piece next to Thoros' heavy horse. “I thought he'd never stop interrogating the minstrel about local lords and their daughters.”

“You don't know if he stopped.” Thoros glanced over the board and plucked the wine bottle from Beric's hand. “When we left the common room, they were both at the merchants' table and maybe it just looked like they were chatting about the card game.” He took a pull from the bottle, then returned it to Beric. “In the end it's better to rely on minstrels than visions in that regard.”

Beric watched an elephant piece being moved next to his dragon and commented with an amused sigh. “If it's really Leiff you saw in the fire, I hope the hardships won't be too tough on him. He'll carry enough of a burden when he has to fill the shoes of his father at such a young age.” He took a crossbowman piece and looked up to Thoros before making the move. “And if you keep trying to kill my dragon, you'll never beat me. The goal is killing the _king_.” The crossbowman knocked Thoros' king off the board. “Like this.”

 

Thoros skeptically raised an eyebrow and studied the remaining pieces, not in an attempt at figuring out how Beric had defeated him, but to weigh his next words. He knew Lord Ossyn had returned from Essos, but so far Beric hadn't mentioned much more than that. No raven had brought a message from Blackhaven to King's Landing either and Thoros wondered if the faith in his old teacher had been misplaced. But if Lord Ossyn had not found the promised miracle, Beric would have noticed his condition after the physical strain of a long journey, right? At least that was what Thoros told himself, that the lack of information was a good thing, but the uncertainty still plagued him.

Maybe Beric had been too busy with his training and not paid close attention. Maybe his father had put more effort in the pretense since his return. Maybe he intended to keep his promise and tell his family about the illness, maybe he was merely waiting for the right moment, maybe Beric's departure to King's Landing had delayed it. And maybe, Thoros thought, he was losing sleep over nothing and Beric would not find it strange at all to be questioned about his father. The game of deception was certainly more pleasant when it was about name day surprises instead of delicate family secrets.

“Fine, let's try this again.” Thoros brushed the remaining pieces off the board and set up the small screen in the middle. “If I didn't know that Anguy can barely tell the pieces apart, I'd think you practiced at home.”

“I did.” Beric gathered his black pieces from the pile on the rug. “My father bought a cyvasse board on his journey and insisted I teach him.” He laughed and began arranging the pieces on his side of the board. “You'd think he'd learn how to play before buying the most elaborate board he could find. He claimed he 'paid for quality that will last a lifetime' and it was just a coincidence that the sturdiest board came with the most decoration.” When he noticed Thoros was carefully watching the order of pieces, Beric shot him a reproachful glance and scraped together the pile, hiding it under his hand. “We played almost every evening,” he continued. “And though my father won't ever admit it, I think he only bought the board to impress Lord Swann. He's known to be a good player and even won a few small competitions in Dorne.”

Thoros barely swallowed a relieved sigh with a quick pull from the wine. “So your father enjoyed his time in Essos?” he asked without hesitation, not letting on that Beric had done him a favor by broaching the subject.

Beric rolled his eyes and leaned back against the foot of the bed, deliberately looking at the flames in the hearth while Thoros finished setting up his pieces. “Apparently he did,” he replied with a chuckle. “And he came back a different man.”

“How so?” Thoros removed the screen and revealed the deployment of the pieces.

“He seemed very stressed during the months before the journey. Upon his return, he looked refreshed and revitalized and didn't quite act like he used to,” Beric said and studied Thoros' side of the board with a thoughtful expression. “Gifts for my mother, gifts for me, gifts for lords he went to visit, he was always generous with those. But he never once bought anything for himself that only served his enjoyment.” He opened with a light horse and waited for Thoros' first move. “One year, no less than eight guests gave him the same wine for his name day because it was the only thing he ever indulged in.”

Thoros regarded the board, his hand hovering indecisively between a trebuchet and a catapult. “Buying an expensive game he doesn't know how to play is certainly a big change,” he gave back, then looked up with a quizzical expression when Beric laughed.

“He didn't stop there.” Beric took the wine and drank a sip before passing the bottle to Thoros. “My mother returned from the Vale a few days after him and was shocked when she first entered their chambers. There were lace curtains, a new rug, and a large tapestry showing the harbor of Myr, along with a curved sword mounted above the hearth for decoration. The one thing he did not buy was that dreadful tea.” Beric laughed, but didn't take his eyes off the board, missing the brief smile that played on Thoros' lips. “Maybe he finally grew weary of it or he just found a better use for his coins.”

Thoros finally made his move, one Beric had predicted and immediately countered with his own. “He had also bought several books, though not in Essos,” Beric continued, ignoring Thoros' reproachful glare. “He took a ship to Oldtown on his way back and paid a visit to Maester Ervyn. Apparently, he recommended some books on different subjects and my father decided to just buy them all.” He chuckled at Thoros' long deliberation and tried to point out a possible move, but his hand was quickly slapped away from the board. “Maester Jeon was just as confused as my mother,” Beric added. “His face was priceless when my father gave him Myrish Eyes and made a joke about Jeon's preoccupation with the caprice of the weather. He probably thought the gift was meant as a reminder of his oath to not reveal details of his old life.”

“Aren't far-eyes used to study star constellations? I don't recall seeing a bronze link on your maester's chain,” Thoros gave back and instead of making a move, he reached for the wine. He took a long pull, then returned to brooding over a strategy Beric wouldn't figure out so easily.

“He's not too interested in astronomy.” Beric seemed amused, both about his father's antics and Thoros' hesitation of selecting a piece. “And he looked very relieved when my father said he bought the Myrish Eyes solely because he appreciated the craftsmanship. I've never seen Maester Jeon so delighted before, except maybe when he bought a well-preserved skeleton from a traveling merchant.” Thoros slowly reached for an elephant piece and after carefully watching Beric's reaction to this choice, he pushed it to an adjacent field. “Unlike then, Maester Jeon's joy lasted longer,” Beric continued, absently studying the board. “A day after he had mounted the skeleton in his study, Anguy snuck in and dressed it up in a maid's gown. Jeon was furious and banned Anguy from attending my lessons for two weeks.”

 

“I'm glad that your father enjoyed his journey.” Thoros triumphantly smiled when Beric didn't instantly counter this move and instead watched the board with a thoughtful expression. “It sounds like a change of scenery was long overdue.” After all he had heard, Thoros was convinced there was no more reason for concern nor was there a need to pry for more details about Lord Ossyn's health. While Beric intently studied the cyvasse board, Thoros gave a brief nod to the fire. Whether this miracle was the doing of divine magic or a talented healer, it couldn't hurt to acknowledge the Red God's involvement.

“It was a good thing he was inspired by our adventures.” Beric absently nodded and reached for the wine. “Though I have a suspicion that it was not his sole reason for traveling to Myr. I think he also wanted to see how I would deal with his absence and handle affairs at Blackhaven without his guidance.” He took a pull from the bottle, set it aside and returned to his deliberation of the next move. “He spoke to Maester Jeon in the solar for a long time on the first evening after his return. In the morning he called me there and said I did very well and made some decisions he should have made months ago. Not that he said it outright, but I'm sure he had some concerns about my judgement in that regard because I spend so much time away from matters at home.”

Thoros looked back from the indifferent flames to Beric. “You might be right about that,” he gave back, a bit dumbfounded that he hadn't thought of it himself. “He didn't say so to me either, but I wouldn't be surprised if he wanted to make sure my renowned lunacy didn't rub off on his heir.” He paused and skeptically raised an eyebrow when Beric looked up from the board with a reproachful smile.

“Come on, stop this charade. Don't tell me you were not in on that plan.” Beric laughed when Thoros just seemed puzzled at the accusation and reached for the wine. “I thought you'd never ask about the outcome of your scheme.” Beric waited for Thoros to drink, then took the bottle from him. “He knew you'd visit and keep an eye on his castle. It's fine, I don't blame either of you. It was probably not easy for my father to leave Blackhaven for such a long time when he wasn't sure how I would handle his affairs.” He inched closer and rested his head on Thoros' shoulder, but he still got no confession. “And you only observed,” he continued. “You didn't interfere or try to sway my decisions. All you did was put my father's mind at ease during his journey.”

“I doubt that.” Thoros woke from his brief daze and put an arm around Beric. “I shouldn't be trusted with castles and their well-stocked wine cellars. Your father may have known I'd come to visit, but I'm sure he trusted you to keep an eye on me, not the other way around.” He took the wine back and drank a few sips, covertly glancing down to Beric and hoping the joke was enough to evade the question. There were enough white lies already and it would be best to rest this subject before more were added though implications.

“If you admit it or not, I'm glad my father thinks of you as a good adviser. So do I.” Beric lifted his head and turned back to the board. “But I also think you're a bad tactician.” His hand slowly moved toward an elephant piece, took it, then used it to kick Thoros' dragon off the board.

For a moment, Thoros just stared at the wooden battlefield and his diminished army, then he sighed with a smile and pulled Beric closer. “I yield,” he said and offered the wine back to him. “Let's finish this off and get some rest. Maybe we'll be lucky and the rain will have ceased in the morning.”

 

﴾ _____________________________________________________________________________________ ﴿

 

The weather hadn't cleared up in the morning, the sky was still a thick blanket of clouds when the patrons left the Ivy Inn to get back on the road. Covered with cloaks and hoods the large group rode down the Kingsroad in surprisingly high spirits. The men-at-arms and the minstrel they guarded had suggested to ride together and the two Rosby knights, Ser Rylan of Spicetown and Ser Amaron Kerry, had joined Beric, Thoros and Leiff as well.

When they had left in the morning, the rain had been light and the air warm and humid. But by midday it was pouring again, the wind had picked up and the minstrel, Darien of Darry, had announced a slight change of their plans. Originally, the Kingsroad would have taken them to a small forest in the evening to make camp for the night, then they'd have proceeded to Darry the next day. Now their destination was a small village on the shores of the Gods Eye, much to Leiff's excitement. Not only would there be an inn with dry beds and the chance of escaping the weather by crossing the Gods Eye by boat. Darien had also mentioned the family of Lady Darry's sister resided in the village. They had a daughter, Emelia, not much younger than Leiff and as far as the minstrel knew her father had recently begun looking for matches.

“I don't know if she's pretty. Didn't ask.” Leiff shot a crooked smile over to Thoros. “Didn't have to. She's from the Riverlands, all girls are pretty here. King Robert said so on the way to Highgarden last year.”

“You know, Robert says that about the girls of every realm,” Thoros gave back with a chuckle. “He went on and on about the allure of Dornish women on the hunt three weeks ago. By the time we left the Kingswood, Ser Barristan had finally agreed with His Grace that, of course, Dornish women were the fairest of all. As soon as he said it, Robert started lecturing him about missing out because Selmy had mentioned a day before that he never had a lass from the Vale in his youth.” He smirked and shot a glance to Beric. “And the king has a point, the Vale has very beautiful women...”

“Leave my mother out of this,” the dripping wet, black hood to his right immediately interjected and Thoros laughed.

“Maybe he meant your cousin.” Leiff chuckled when Beric slowly turned his head to glower at him. “Ser Aydan is a lucky man, you have to admit that. And I wouldn't call Rowland's wife homely either,” he added, ignoring Beric's reprimanding glare.

“My point is, don't trust Robert's assessment of realms and their women,” Thoros diverted the conversation away from Beric's family. “His Grace is very fond of his memories and likes talking about 'making the eight' when he was younger. On any given day, the lass he remembers happens to represent the realm with the most beautiful women. But let's not forget that the king wasn't always the man you see now. He used to be handsome and famed as a warrior and the finest women were after him. Doesn't mean the ugly ones didn't want him, but he doesn't reminisce about them. Can't blame him, can you? If you had only memories to brighten your day, would you think back to the ones that looked like a horse's ass?”

Leiff thoughtfully regarded Thoros for a moment. “Did you 'make the eight'?” he finally asked. “Maybe your judgement is less clouded.”

Thoros laughed and shrugged before he answered. “I frankly don't know. This whole 'making the eight' tradition seems much bigger in Robert's mind than it ever was in reality. To me, it seems it was just a fad among certain nobles. I don't ask every lass where she hails from.” He paused and furrowed his brow in thought under his faded red hood. “But if I had to guess, I'd say I haven't. I'm reasonably sure I left out the Iron Islands. Been there just twice and though I don't recall much of my first visit, I know I was there to kill Ironborn, not to fuck them.” After a pull from his flask he raised it, toasting to Leiff. “And my judgement is as clouded as it gets. You'll have to rely on your own taste in that regard.”

“Looks are nothing to go by anyway,” Leiff said after a brief silence, an air of importance in his voice. “Darien said the girl he'll introduce to me knows a lot about the Old Gods, weirwoods and the history of the Wall. It might help her adjusting to life in the North and that is more important than being pretty. The last thing I need is a summer child for a wife.”

 

﴾ _____________________________________________________________________________________ ﴿

 

The day in the village had started out pleasant in the small inn by the shore of the Gods Eye. Fresh bread had been served in the morning, along with apple juice, ale and small pies filled with berries. The rain had stopped during the night and a warm breeze chased away the last rags of the clouds from a blue summer sky.

Darien of Darry and his guards had spent the night in the town's holdfast and agreed to meet the rest of the party in their inn before noon. In the evening, when it had still been raining, they had decided that going by ferry to the Northern shore of the lake was preferable to getting soaked on the Kingsroad. Nobody objected to the suggestion and the minstrel announced he'd perform his rendition of _The Green King of the Gods Eye_ when they'd pass the Isle of Faces. The ship was scheduled to leave the small harbor in the early afternoon and reach Harrentown in the evening. From there it was only a day's ride to Darry where Ser Wynston Satterly would join the group.

To pass the time, Beric and Thoros took a stroll along the shore with Ser Amaron Kerry, chatting about the upcoming wedding and enjoying the scenery on the lake's shore. The rolling hills, the golden fields swaying in the sunlight and the shimmering, clear blue waves of the water offered more to the eye when it wasn't raining like upon their arrival. Ser Rylan visited his sister who had recently begun working for a basket weaver in the village. Ser Amaron joked that he should buy some baskets as wedding gifts, which his friend had given serious consideration. In the meantime, Leiff took care of the horses, a welcome excuse for not leaving the inn. The minstrel had promised he'd ask Lord Alveston about his daughter and introduce Leiff, should the lord show interest in meeting a potential match from the North.

When the trio returned from their walk, there were more horses outside the inn than before. From the distance, they recognized Darien's dapple grey with its colorful caparison among them. If the minstrel was back from his stay at the holdfast, there was a good chance he had brought the promised guests with him. “Fingers crossed that the girl is all Leiff hopes she'll be,” Thoros said when he opened the door to the inn. “I imagine you'd be thrilled to help him plan the wedding.” He chuckled at Beric's brief glare, then followed him and Ser Amaron inside.

 

﴾ _____________________________________________________________________________________ ﴿

 

“Give the girl a few years and she'll rival your cousin,” Thoros whispered to Beric through the chatter on the long table and immediately earned a raised eyebrow. He chuckled to himself and put some more buttered carrots on his plate, still keeping an eye on the other side of the table. Lord Alveston, his wife and his daughter had gladly accepted Darien's invitation of sharing the group's feast in the inn. They were pleasant people, neither Thoros nor Beric denied that, but Leiff's initial enthusiasm had die down considerably by now.

“I love dancing,” Emelia, Lord Alveston's daughter, cheerfully said, smiling at Leiff. “Will there be dances at your castle? Are there other girls who can help me find dresses in Northerner fashions? I wouldn't want to make a bad impression by choosing an unpopular style.”

“My sister Dayana likes sewing,” Leiff gave back, stirring his oxtail soup with barely veiled boredom. “But she won't be living at Frostspear Hall by the time I return. She'll be fostered in the Vale by House Rainborn. I already made arrangements for her journey and the fee has been paid.”

Lord Alveston and his wife exchanged an appreciative glance, but their daughter was less impressed with that information. “Well, I hope I won't stand out too much wearing my gowns then.” She playfully pouted and shot a glance to Darien, engaged in a conversation with Ser Rylan across from her. “There'll still be entertainment, right? I learned playing the lyre, but I need more practice. It would be wonderful if there was a minstrel to teach me!” It was not hard to see she had a specific minstrel in mind for those lessons; Darien was too handsome for his own good and gallantly ignored the remark despite being in earshot.

“No minstrels.” Leiff ate a spoonful of soup to swallow his sigh. “Some of the guards like to sing, but I don't think they know any songs suited for dancing.”

 

“I doubt my help with wedding plans will be needed,” Beric dryly commented as the awkward conversation on the other side of the table continued. He dipped a piece of bread in his gravy, then took a bite. “She may know a lot about history, the First Men, weirwoods and the Old Gods, but it doesn't sound like she knows a thing about real life in the North.”

Thoros nodded and took a sip from his ale. “The longer I listen, the more I understand what Leiff meant by 'summer child'. But you forget that my vision showed me the Twins. There's still a chance he'll find a girl more accustomed to winter there.” He shot an amused glance to Beric. “Or maybe there's a summer child waiting for you and next I'll know you'll want to settle down with her and I'll travel with your father instead.”

“Lord Fiore,” Beric sharply gave back, glowering at Thoros over the edge of his cup. “You saw Lord Fiore in the fire.”

 


	29. At The Crossroads

The weather remained sunny during the group's ride on the ferry and Darien entertained his audience on the deck. The highlight of his performance was the tale of the Green King who once ruled the lands at the shores of the Gods Eye and was revered as a great hero in the Riverlands to the day. Legends like this were a popular theme for minstrels and the Isle of Faces, where the First Men had made the pact with the Children of the Forest, painted a fitting backdrop for listening to them. Darien left out no detail and evidently enjoyed the undivided attention of his small audience before he had to compete with other musicians and storytellers at the Twins. At times his performance resembled a history lesson of an especially passionate maester, but Darien was talented and charming enough to make even the drier parts of the tales entertaining.

In the evening, the group found an inn in the small village of Harrentown for the night and here, Darien's stories took a darker turn to Harrenhal and the rumors of its curses. The scorched ruins towered in the distance outside the window, foreboding and eerie; an illustration of the tragedies that echoed within these impossibly thick and tall walls.

“The place gives me the chills,” Ser Amaron noted when Darien put his lute away and turned his attention to the suckling pig and bowls of buttered greens on the table. “Those towers witnessed more misery in only three centuries than other castles have seen since the Days of Dawn.”

“Would be a bad omen to stay there for the night,” Darien added. “Thousands of lives were lost during its construction, the blood of men mixed into the mortar, weirwoods cut down to provide rafters and beams. Death lived there even before Harren the Black moved in and the stench lingers in those walls ever since. That's not a gift one should bring to a wedding.”

“Don't ghosts haunt the places they knew in life?” Leiff pulled a bowl of sprouts closer and began filling his plate. “Are Southern ghosts different from those in the Nightfort?”

“We didn't see any ghosts there,” Beric interjected. “If they really exist, they either played coy with us or they left their frozen ruin before we arrived.”

“It's not the ghosts,” Ser Amaron explained. “Ghosts stay where their bodies are buried, so they can rest there if their death is avenged. But the curse of Harrenhal knows no such confinements. Seven houses held the castle in its short lifetime and six of those bloodlines no longer exist. The seventh, House Whent, carries the curse that befell their predecessors as well. It's only a matter of time until Harrenhal claims its next victim.”

“Not even Lord Frey's uncanny virility can overcome it.” Ser Rylan set down his mug of black beer and emptied a bowl of green beans on his plate. “His fifth wife was Sarya Whent, the first and last of his wives who died childless. And his son Danwell married Lady Wynafrei Whent. She, too, has not given him any children, none that were breathing when they left the womb anyway.”

“Maybe this curse is a blessing,” one of Darien's guards said with a shrug. “Maybe it will prevent a takeover of the Riverlands by Frey children one day. Imagine that! House Frey ruling Harrenhal, what a tale that would be! Lord Walder's loins as the champion of life and resilience against the dark curse trapped in those walls!”

There were some chuckles and quiet laughter, but only for a brief moment. “Keep talking like that and you'll be looking for a new employer!” Darien slammed his mug on the table and glared at the brazen guard. “As long as you're working for me, you'll keep such thoughts to yourself. Understood?”

“It was just a joke,” the guard gave back, unimpressed. “Can you name a single house without ties to the Twins, by blood or by marriage?”

“Lord Darry happens to have such ties.” Darien picked up his mug again, but didn't take his reprimanding glare off the guard. “Two of his cousins married sons of House Frey.” He drank from his beer and took a deep breath. “And he is a generous host whose castle is close to well-traveled crossroads, a large inn and patrons with fairly deep pockets. I'd rather not see him offended by rude remarks about his family. If saying those things holds more appeal to you than my payment, you can get on your horse and ride back to Duskendale now.”

For a moment it was quiet, just the fire crackled in the hearth and back at the bar beer or ale gurgled when it was poured into mugs.

“House Tully,” Thoros broke the silence matter-of-factly, instantly conjuring a triumphant smirk on Darien's face. Slights against House Frey clearly bothered him less than being upstaged as an entertainer and Thoros' answer was wind in his sails.

“Aye, House Tully,” Darien echoed, not hiding the satisfaction in his voice. “Not in his wildest dreams would Lord Hoster Tully see his son marry a woman named Frey. And as long as his blood rules the Riverlands, we won't need curses to prevent a takeover.”

 

﴾ _____________________________________________________________________________________ ﴿

 

At first glance, Beric thought there was a troupe of musicians and actors when he followed his companions into the Crossroads Inn. A second glance quickly revealed this was a wrong assessment. It was Ser Allon, surrounded by companions who evidently shared his gaudy taste in fashion; a potpourri of mismatched patterns, swanky embellishments, and screaming colors occupied the common room's largest table.

“Looks like the curse caught up to us in the end,” Beric whispered to Thoros as they looked around for a free table. Lord Raymun Darry and Ser Wynston Satterly, along with their squires and guards, had joined them at Darry and the increased size of the party forced them to spread out across several tables in the already crowded room of the inn. Just when Ser Amaron waved Beric over, Ser Allon's voice shattered his hopes of reaching the spot unseen and eating in peace.

“Get the fucking wizard and his minions out of here!”

Irritated eyes wandered to Ser Allon, now standing and half leaning over the table, glaring at Thoros and apparently expecting him to obey the yelled order at once. The fucking wizard did no such thing though. He continued his way to Ser Amaron's table and quietly laughed when Ser Rylan remarked that he remembered Ser Allon running away from the lists in Lannisport a few months ago. Beric didn't turn around either, though his face betrayed annoyance instead of amusement. He took a deep breath to calm himself, but before he reached the table, Ser Allon shouted again.

“He cursed me at Lannisport! He put a hex on my horse and it cost me the victory over Ser Gregor!” Ser Allon pushed back his chair and shoved two patrons aside as he slowly made his way toward Thoros. “I didn't forget that! And you will pay for my loss!”

“And you believe fighting in a busy tavern will restore your lost honor?” Beric slowly turned around, his hand on the hilt of his sword. His eyes met Ser Allon's and there was a brief pause as if the patrons in the room held their breath all at once. Then Ser Allon reached for his sword and tried to storm toward Beric, but he was stopped after a few steps by two guards of Lord Darry. Immediately, three of Ser Allon's colorful companions rose from their chairs, the remaining two hesitated, but then got up as well.

Thoros now stepped closer to Beric and subtly grabbed his wrist, pulling the hand away from the hilt of the sword. “That armed jester won't listen to reason,” he whispered. “Let him rage, I don't care what he says. If anything, I find it amusing that he believes I'm a master of the dark arts and possess the power of cursing horses.” Beric regarded him skeptically, but he nodded and didn't move his hand back to the sword.

“I don't plan on fighting in here,” he quietly gave back. “But I doubt he'll stop at voicing his anger. We'll have an unfair fight on our hands as soon as we walk out through that door and I rather have them think twice before they attack us.”

 

“You're lying through your teeth!” That was Ser Rylan who had positioned himself in front of Beric, blocking the way for Ser Allon's companions. “You're a coward! _You_ ran away instead of facing Clegane, not your horse!” Heads turned, people stared at Ser Allon, murmurs and quiet laughter grew louder, then abruptly stopped when he tore his arms free from the guards' hold.

Beric was about to reach for his sword again, but he paused and looked around in mild confusion instead. Ser Amaron had left the table and joined Ser Rylan's blockade. “And you wouldn't have defeated Ser Gregor, not even on a horse blessed by the gods,” he added, conjuring laughter from patrons once more. “You barely stayed in the saddle against Ser Tylar Lannister and that man is old enough to have witnessed the pact on the Isle of Faces in his youth.”

“Normally, I'd say you have guts for challenging Thoros of Myr and Lord Beric Dondarrion at the same time,” Ser Wynston chimed in, slowly lifting his imposing stature from his chair on Lord Darry's table. “But in your case, I call it 'stupid'. You can't possibly think you stand a chance against just one of them.” He made a large step toward Ser Allon, ignoring the other men on the table. “Or do you think people speak your name in the same breath with Ser Loras Tyrell, Ser Tymon Sorrey or Sandor Clegane? Those are warriors who can give the men you challenge a real fight. A fool like you can't even drink them under the table and your thirst is the only thing that rivals your hubris.”

 

The longer Ser Wynston spoke, using stern words as weapons, the smaller Ser Allon appeared in his pompous surcoat; white with golden embroidery, a cheap and obvious attempt at summoning the image of the Kingsguard's white cloaks. And the smaller Ser Allon looked, the more patrons began bursting with laughter. A group of men wearing the colors of Raventree Hall demanded to see the fight Ser Allon had been so eager to start just a few moments ago and soon groups on other tables cheered them on. Two of Ser Allon's companions didn't look opposed to the suggestion, but the others had quietly sat back down and Ser Allon, still standing, was stuck for an answer.

“What do you say? Shall we answer the challenge?” Thoros turned to Beric with a crooked smile and put an arm on his shoulders, though this time he had no intention of holding him back. His daring smirk spoke volumes and Thoros could feel his hand twitch near the hilt. It had taken Beric a few moments to realize that the crowd was firmly on his side and wouldn't allow Ser Allon to play any tricks. Now the epiphany had sank in and made way for a rush of excitement and Thoros saw no reason to extinguish this fire.

“Not in here.” Beric made a step forward when Ser Amaron and Ser Rylan moved out of his way. “We can't have you set an inn on fire, can we?” The crowd answered with quick nods and expectant eyes; Beric's tone held a promise they'd get their wish once he was done talking. “But there's a less flammable square outside the stable,” Beric continued, slowly drawing his sword and then pointing it at Ser Allon. “Why don't we settle it there? No horses, no curses, just Thoros and I against you and a man of your choosing. I'm sure what's left of the wall offers seats for the audience, so everyone will see that you are not a coward.”

 

﴾ _____________________________________________________________________________________ ﴿

 

The Crossroads Inn had quickly lost all its patrons to the yard outside the barn after Ser Allon hadn't backed down from his challenge and now the burden of living up to the boasts fell to him. One of the sellswords, a man in a screaming green surcoat, had volunteered for the fight, but was promptly disarmed by Thoros' third strike. The audience, feeling cheated out of half the spectacle, demanded a more exciting display from Ser Allon and Beric, and neither showed a lack of determination, if nothing else. Ser Allon was hopelessly outclassed, that much was evident even before Thoros' opponent had dropped his sword. However, it didn't stop Ser Allon from blindly charging, yelling insults at Beric and occasionally spitting and cursing at the spectators gathered on the low wall and bales of hay.

Thoros took the mug Leiff offered him, leaned back against the white stone wall and drank a large swig. The sun shone bright and hot and the black beer was strong, there was still a chance of catching up with his defeated foe's inebriation. “He should have yielded when Beric gave him the chance,” he noted. The cheers of the crowd swallowed Leiff's answer when Beric evaded one more blow with ease.

“At least he proved that he isn't a coward,” Leiff repeated once the spectators had calmed down. “He just won't convince anyone that he's honorable or smart.” After one last bite, he threw the apple core over his shoulder, then joined the applause when Ser Allon missed yet another time. Beric didn't even try to counter the attempted attack, he just dodged one badly aimed strike after another without effort. The audience appreciated the show nonetheless, except for the colorful group of sellswords that stood a bit away from the makeshift melee arena, looking bored while nursing their drinks. “See how the other squires look at me?” Leiff nodded across the battlefield with a roguish smile on his face, directing Thoros' gaze to the boys who traveled with Lord Darry and Ser Wynston. “They all wish this was their knight giving Ser Allon a beating.”

Another blow hit only the dry dirt on the ground where Beric had been when Ser Allon had raised his sword. Now, Beric was behind his back and snickered while skipping around, much to the audience's amusement. Though the sun was burning and Beric wore black, he didn't break a sweat or show signs of fatigue, unlike Ser Allon in his gaudy, white coat. This fight resembled a rare spectacle of nature; a sleek shadowcat toying with its prey, an especially stubborn aurochs whose size and strength were no advantage and just promised a more sumptuous meal.

“Are you still not tired of this?” Beric addressed Ser Allon's sweat-soaked back. “I already let you pick up your sword twice. Do you really think the third time would be a charm?” His opponent gasped for breath, but instead of yielding to end his misery, he raised the sword for a new swing. Beric evaded the blade by simply stepping aside, then regarded Ser Allon with amusement and pity. “Wouldn't you rather sit down now and have a cool drink in the tavern?” He ostentatiously looked around to the audience, many holding empty mugs or sharing bottles with others. “I know I would,” Beric turned back to Ser Allon with a smug smile. “Some ale and one of those delicious pies I smelled earlier sounds good. I can't stand fighting on an empty stomach, makes me cranky and sluggish...”

Ser Allon interrupted with a loud, angry groan and an attempt of charging at Beric, but the shadowcat jumped out of the way and the aurochs' attack led him chest first into a large bale of hay. “I'll buy you a pie if you finish him now!” a local man yelled, waving an empty mug at the combatants. “My soup's getting cold on the table!”

“It's so inconsiderate of that shimmering oaf to not yield!” a woman next to him, his wife by the looks, added. “As if it wasn't rude enough to challenge a man before he had time to sit down for a drink!”

Grumbling, Ser Allon worked himself out of the hay bale and turned around. What he saw stirred his anger up even more. Beric had wandered across their squared battlefield and now stood with a group of spectators, mostly young women and boys from the village, who offered their bottles of ale to him. He calmly took one, drank a few sips, then gave it back to its owner. Only when Ser Allon let out an annoyed grunt, Beric slowly turned back to face his opponent, staring at him with furious eyes and bared teeth, getting ready for a new charge.

“Can't you see these people are bored out of their minds and want to go back to their tables?” Beric dramatically sighed before Ser Allon made his move. “You could at least try to do something to make the show worth their while instead of leaving the burden of entertaining them on my shoulders.” He sighed again, raised his sword and made a step toward Ser Allon. “You challenged me, it wasn't my idea. It really shouldn't be all on me to turn a bar room brawl into a true spectacle.”

Their swords clanked as Ser Allon attacked instead of giving an answer. The heat and the length of the fight had rendered him slow and clumsy, and combined with his blind rage, it gave Beric no trouble parrying each blow. A quick kick ended the melee engagement and sent Ser Allon stumbling backwards, finally landing on his behind in the dirt under a stream of unintelligible cursing.

“Your offer still stands?” Beric looked around for the man who had offered the pie for a swift finale and got a nod for an answer when he spotted him on the wall. “Let us finish this then.” He pointed the sword at Ser Allon, slowly getting up and dusting down his now stained, white coat. “Thoros, throw me the rest of your wildfire.” Beric's voice was firm and he didn't take his eyes of Ser Allon as he spoke. “If this churl still burns for his 'vengeance', maybe I should try to fight fire with fire.”

Ser Allon paused his attempt of cleaning the coat and stared at Beric with wide eyes, his mouth agape and his hands frozen in motion. “You are insane,” he gasped, then shot a side glance to Thoros and gasped again when he saw the vial in his hand, ready to be thrown.

“Maybe I am,” Beric promptly gave back and gestured to Thoros for the small bottle of wildfire. “But at least I won't be the one bothering people who just want to eat in peace.” His hand caught the vial and Ser Allon made a step back, glaring at the murky green liquid in disbelief. “Now there are two choices,” Beric sternly continued. “Either you pay that man's soup, pack your things and leave this inn at once...” He regarded the vial and smiled to himself. “Or this blade goes up in flames and I'll chase you all the way up the Kingsroad, if I have to.”

The world stood still for an eternity of a moment. The spectators held their breath, no sound could be heard, except for the call of an ignorant songbird. All eyes rested on Ser Allon in anticipation for his decision and it finally came when he lowered his sword. He grunted one last insult at Beric, too hushed to be understood by anyone else, but apparently unfounded enough to make Beric laugh, then Ser Allon nodded to his men by the barn. “We're leaving,” he barked, still glaring at his opponent. “Give that dotard some coins and gather our stuff. It's a long way to the Twins, we better be going.”

 

﴾ _____________________________________________________________________________________ ﴿

 

The good mood after the spectacle outside the barn had only gotten better when the inn filled once more. People bought rounds of ale and beer while Darien played his most popular songs on the lute and the pie was as delicious as its smell had promised. After Ser Allon's hasty departure Beric had claimed the large table and people scrambled for the remaining chairs as soon as he sat down between Thoros and Leiff. In their excitement, some boys from the nearby village forgot their good manners and drilled Beric with their burning questions even before he cut into his pie. They wanted to know all about the tourney in Lannisport, though their interest pertained to Beric's victory over Lord Fiore more than Ser Allon's disgraceful escape. Beric patiently answered and the tale sparked new questions, what it was like to travel with Ser Loras Tyrell, if Ser Barristan Selmy had known what ruse they planned at Harvest Hall.

Thoros was surprised to learn that the seed had indeed been sown during the training in King's Landing, though in hindsight it made perfect sense. Ser Barristan had agreed to Thoros' proposal of training with Beric without further question, saying it brought back fond memories of his youth. At the time, Thoros hadn't given the remark too much thought, but now the meaning became crystal clear. Of course Selmy had reminisced about his own ruse at Blackhaven and of course Beric had told Loras about their training not much later. Looking back, it wasn't all that surprising how things came together.

While Thoros pondered how he had missed such an obvious connection, Beric's audience listened with growing amazement. When Beric paused to eat, Leiff couldn't resist the chance of sparking more envy in the other squires. He casually mentioned his knight's relation to House Rainborn and the fosterage of his sister and it had the desired effect. Ser Aydan had won notable tourneys held at Riverrun, the seat of House Tully, and was a frequent and welcome visitor of festivals at the Trident. “Ser Aydan is good, but he stands no chance against you,” a page of Lord Darry confidently declared and Thoros chuckled into his beer when Beric slightly blushed at that. Two boys from the village immediately agreed, though one added Ser Aydan would make a worthier opponent than Ser Allon.

As if he had waited for this cue, Darien of Darry got up and gestured to a guard, demanding the lute. “I only have the first two verses written,” he said with an air of importance. “But I'll work on more on the way and hopefully I can perform this new ballad when we reach the Twins. I call it _Hero at the Crossroads_.”

Beric stared at him, slightly confused, and listened as Darien began singing. The ballad poetically mocked a big-mouthed knight who worried more about his fancy coat than his honor, then described the annoyed patrons of a tavern. They couldn't enjoy their food due to the bully's incoherent rambling about his own cowardice and desperately wished for a hero to shut the fool up. Thoros almost spit out his beer when the second verse began with said hero's arrival, comparing it to an eagle descending upon its prey. Beric, on the other hand, was too astonished to complain about the description being dangerously close to a bird joke. Darien ended his brief demonstration with the first lines depicting the fight, then took a bow and basked in the applause of his audience before returning to Lord Darry's table.

 

﴾ _____________________________________________________________________________________ ﴿

 

When the party continued their way up the Kingsroad later that day, Darien kept his horse close to Beric's at all times. To find more inspiration for his new ballad, he wanted more tales of victories and details that had been drowned out in the cheers earlier. Beric, still stumped by the minstrel's genuine interest, told him about the tourney at Grandview where Ser Silvane came within a whisker of breaking his streak. Darien listened intently, occasionally nodded and tried out rhyme and rhythm of words while plucking strings of his lute. When Beric brought up his journey to Blacktyde and mentioned the presence of Nereon, Darien's face instantly darkened. For the first time since they had left the Crossroads Inn, he interrupted to pelt Beric with questions that didn't sound like their answers would make it into the song. Thoros and Leiff snickered at this part of the exchange; Darien acted like a lovelorn suitor who sensed competition for the heart of his beloved. Even when he absently plucked the strings, their sound seemed to carry subtle aggression, three chord war anthems meant to fend off the unseen rival.

“And this Krakensong person...” Darien furtively inquired when Beric paused after detailing his comical prize. “Did you see him take notes after the tourney? Or did you hear a new melody from his cabin on the way back from Blacktyde?”

Beric laughed and shook his head, flattery fighting with amusement in his expression. “I did,” he gave back and had Darien been an rabbit, his ears would have pricked up at the sound of such danger. “He showed me the words to a new song on our journey,” Beric continued. “I gave him my honest opinion and said the tale was barely coherent, so he called me an uncultured layman and sulked all day. After the tourney, he wrote a ballad about the questionable accomplishments of my friend, maybe to spite me. The words are terrible and rather uncouth, to be honest, but my friend is very proud of the song nonetheless. Luckily, he only knows marcher ballads. Those melodies don't fit the words on his scroll, so I never heard Nereon's ballad. It's more a long, rambling poem, I guess.”

Darien's smile returned and his improvised tune softened after this elaboration. “My ballad will do your deeds justice,” he assured Beric with an air of importance. “The Riverlands audience wouldn't like the ramblings of an Ironborn madman anyway. People like cheerful songs around here, tales of courage and honor, and true friendship. So I will draw inspiration from that part at least, that you don't begrudge your friend's keepsake of strange poetry.” He appraisingly regarded Thoros and Leiff, riding to Beric's left. “Which of them received this dubious dedication?”

“Neither,” Beric gave back. He was about to add more and mention Anguy, but he paused when Darien's brow furrowed in thought.

“Hmm, I would like to include a verse or two about the hero's true companion...” He absently plucked some strings, then lowered the lute. “I'm not sure I can work in three of them without distracting too much from the core of the story.”

“Just mention me then,” Leiff got there before Thoros, not without shooting him a roguish grin. “I'm his squire, I'm the obvious pick, am I not?”

“Not so fast!” Thoros straightened his back in an attempt of looking imposing. “You're just in it for the stew, if I remember correctly. I, on the other hand, travel with him without ulterior motives. I should be mentioned, I've known him longer than you.”

Beric snickered, then suddenly paused and looked at Darien with slight panic. “Don't ask me to decide! I won't do it!”

Darien answered with a long, knowing look and a wide smile. “Of course not!” he gave back, much to Beric's relief. “I'll mention the hero is a true leader and inspires fierce loyalty in friends and followers from all walks of life! People will love that!” He aimed his smile and expectant eyes at Leiff. “Let's start with you! Tell me about that quest of yours and how your knights aids you in it.”

 

﴾ _____________________________________________________________________________________ ﴿

 

When evening came the procession made camp at the banks of the Trident's Green Fork, near what looked like the early stages of a watermill being constructed. Pavilions were erected, fires were lit, and the squires tried to surpass each other at fishing. Darien presented a preliminary third verse of his ballad and found much applause for his choice of words.

The moon stood high in a clear field of sparkling stars and the air was filled the scent of freshly grilled fish when the flap of the tent opened, briefly allowing the flickering light of the fire in. Then the flap fell back in its place and a moment later Thoros' light blanket suddenly became very heavy and strangely alive.

“Just because you're the hero of the crossroads now, you still can't treat me as furniture, your lordship,” Thoros complained with feigned indignation, grabbed Beric and pulled him off to the side. His lordship offered no resistance and just slumped down with a chuckle. He seemed intoxicated and Thoros knew the wine they had shared by the fire wasn't the reason, Beric was drunk with bliss and pride.

“Hear, hear, my cushion finally learned how to properly address me.”

It was too dark to see in the tent, but Thoros could hear the smirk in Beric's voice. “Didn't dare to say 'fledgling' since you grew into a bird of prey at the crossroads,” he gave back. “Any dutiful cushion fears sharp talons.” He laughed when no answer came and he knew the pause meant Beric raised an eyebrow at him.

“Did you hear what Leiff told the boys when they were fishing?” Beric changed the subject, his tone shifting back to bemusement and pride. “He bragged about being my squire. One of the pages asked if he went South all alone to outdo the competition and impress me.” He wriggled around until he found a comfortable position, then dragged Thoros' arm under his head. “Leiff neither confirmed nor denied it. Instead, he told them about the brave Southerner who was unfazed by the crow's superstition and slept like a rock in the Nightfort while the Northern bigmouth trembled with fear.”

“I missed that part,” Thoros replied and adjusted his arm. “But he's certainly acquired a taste for their envy. I heard him say that he could have squired for Loras and turned down the offer because he favored you. And it seems he's considering matches from the Riverlands for his sisters, too.”

“He is?” Beric felt around behind the cushions, both dead and alive, until he found Thoros' bottle of wine. “What makes you think that?”

Thoros waited for Beric to take a pull, then reached for the bottle. “It sounded that way,” he said before drinking a sip. “He brought up the fosterage with House Rainborn several times and spoke alone with Ser Wynston's squire. Maybe I misread it though and he just mentioned it to point out his knight's relation to a Great House of the Vale.” He chuckled and put the bottle back behind the cushion. “He didn't say a word about Rowland, so maybe it was really the latter. Can't blame him for taking every chance of bragging about you, you made quite the impression.”

“As if you could claim innocence.” Beric laughed and gave Thoros a nudge. “Dueling King Robert for the honor of riding next to me? At least most of what Leiff said is true.”

“You don't know what Robert and I do in our spare time when you're at Blackhaven,” Thoros replied, pretending to be piqued by the accusation of lying.

Again, Beric laughed, then rested his head on Thoros' shoulder. “Fine, I'll take your word for it. But only because I'm too tired to argue. Being a hero of the people is more exhausting than I ever expected.”

 


	30. How Dreadful It Is To Go Over The Mire

It was just outside the village of Sweetwillow when the party was held up by a messenger wearing the colors of House Frey. Both the man and the horse were exhausted and seemed glad for the chance of taking a break.

“Apologies, my lord!” The messenger wheezed and panted as he addressed Lord Darry, leading the procession with Ser Wynston and his guards. “You will be attending the wedding at the Twins?”

Lord Darry halted his horse and signaled the riders following him to wait. “Aye, that is our destination,” he replied, quizzically regarding the man. “The wedding has not been called off, has it?”

“No, no, it hasn't!” the messenger quickly assured him, still catching his breath. “But there will be a delay. Lord Frey still hasn't returned from his visit to Harlaw. Yesterday a raven came, letting us know the ship left Ten Towers late due to bad weather.” His brow furrowed when the information conjured up chuckles and quiet laughter among the waiting riders. “He is expected to reach Seagard tomorrow and ride for the Twins right away,” the messenger defensively added, looking back from the snickering men down the road to Lord Darry. “My lord, if you could delay your arrival for a few days as well, House Frey would be very grateful,” he continued, more abjectly. “There is already a large gathering of disgruntled guests outside the castle and the guards have their hands full keeping the fighting at bay.”

Several men sighed as the conversation went on and it became clear that this was not a joke. Some turned their horses around, directing them back to the village. Others just stretched their legs while waiting for the outcome of the discussion. From the corner of his eye, Thoros saw one of Darien's guards almost fall face first into a blueberry bush, unable to contain his laughter after hearing Lord Frey would be late. The man was trying so hard to keep a straight face that he missed the stirrup and only barely pulled himself up again after the clumsy mistake. In his second attempt, he managed to dismount the horse somewhat more gracefully, just to immediately stumble over a rock. He was quite lucky under those circumstances, Darien didn't pay attention to his surroundings as he had begun tuning his lute to pass time.

“Why can't they let the guests stay in the courtyards? They have two of them, they could just separate the quarreling parties.” Leiff looked to Beric, but it was Thoros who answered.

“House Frey has a rather fragile chain of command, I gather. As soon as Lord Walder is away from his seat, his various sons and heirs fall into disarray. They're probably arguing whether they should make the guests wait outside or let them in.” He eyed the blueberry bushes by the roadside, then dismounted the horse, not missing the stirrup, and strolled over to them. “But what does it concern us? We aren't the ones piling up at the Crossing.” With a shrug, he picked some berries and tried them, approved of his harvest with a raised eyebrow, then offered some to Leiff and Beric. “We'll just stay in Sweetwillow for two or three days and then take our sweet time for the rest of the way. Could be worse, all things considered.”

Leiff chewed the berries and appraisingly regarded Beric from the side. “Or we could ride to Hag's Mire,” he said as if testing the waters for a more elaborate plan. “It's only two or three days away and we could reach the Twins on the same road Lord Frey will take from Seagard.”

Beric shrugged and pulled the reins of his horse. “I'll talk to this messenger and find out how much time we should take.”

Thoros watched him ride toward Lord Darry and Ser Wynston, then looked up to Leiff. “Why would we go to Hag's Mire?” he asked. “We have a perfectly good village nearby, with solid ground all around it. There's nothing but bogs, swamps and bad roads past Sevenstreams.”

“My knight seems exhausted from the constant attention and admiration,” Leiff importantly declared and straightened his back. “It is my duty as his squire to look after his well-being.”

“He does,” Thoros gave back with a chuckle. “Last night I called him 'spoiled and petty' for saying all the flattery begins to feel like a bit of a burden.” He plucked some more berries from the shrub and wandered back to his horse. “But you don't see it that way. You enjoy the envy of squires and pages and stir them up to voice it any chance you get. Why would you give up such splendid entertainment?”

Leiff glanced to Darien, still busy tuning his lute and absently humming the melody of his new ballad, then leaned down a bit to whisper to Thoros. “He told me about playing in a tavern there. It had a bad reputation, but Darien gave it a second chance due to a new owner. He was surprised how good the food was and he also remembered the new owner's name was Tobyn. I recall hearing this name in White Harbor during my search for the cook from the Golden Trident.”

“I see. You think your quest might finally come to an end and I'll get to try the stew I heard so much about, after all.” Thoros climbed back on his horse and opened a saddlebag to search for his wine. “It seems we have two good reasons to ride for Hag's Mire then.”

“Three.” Beric halted his horse between Leiff and Thoros. “The messenger met Ser Allon and his band of bigmouths a few hours away on the Kingsroad. He said they are planning to stay in Sweetwillow as well and I frankly don't need another duel.” He looked down the road to the silhouette of the village. “There's just one inn and it will be rather crowded. I'm in the mood for some peace and quiet instead.”

“Still makes two reasons,” Thoros noted. “Your attentive squire saw that his knight needs time to recover from all the excitement of the last days.”

Beric looked to Leiff and mild surprise quickly turned into a satisfied smile. “What's the other reason then?”

 

﴾_____________________________________________________________________________________ ﴿

 

“How strange that this is how it all ends.” Leiff returned to their table with a blank expression and a piece of parchment in his hand. He sat down next to Beric and put the parchment on the table, regarding it thoughtfully as if he tried to figure out what it was. Beric and Thoros silently watched and waited until Leiff finished his quiet contemplation. “It's not that the stew was _bad_ ,” he turned to Beric, as if he had demanded an explanation from Leiff. “Quite the opposite, it was good. Just not as good as I remembered.” Both Beric and Thoros silently nodded, then Thoros pulled the piece of parchment closer and read over the recipe written on it.

“It's the right cook though, you're sure about that?” He pushed it back to Leiff, then reached for his ale.

“No doubt in my mind,” Leiff promptly replied. “He told me why he left White Harbor while he wrote it down. Just as I was told, he inherited this tavern from an uncle, along with some land outside Sevenstreams and a small flock of sheep.” After another long look at the parchment, Leiff glanced to the stack of empty bowls near the edge of the table. “It's all there,” he added resignedly and shrugged. “The mushrooms, the bacon, the pepper. And that one mysterious flavor other stews lacked and left me wondering what it was. Cloves. It's so obvious now that I see it written.”

“It was still a delicious stew,” Beric noted. “We've had much worse on our travels. And we've seen the hill with the ruins of Oldstones, escaped Ser Allon's impertinence and ate in peace. It was worth the journey to Hag's Mire even if the stew didn't quite live up to the legend.”

Leiff sighed and absently swished the ale around instead of drinking from his mug. “Maybe, but it also feels strange that my search has come to an end.” He paused, thought for a moment, then shared his epiphany with a smile when he looked up. “We could visit the witch and ask what the future holds for me now.”

“The witch?” Thoros echoed and exchanged a quizzical glance with Beric.

“Aye, she lives in the bog, not even half a day's ride from here.” Leiff's melancholy over the stew had been replaced with curious excitement. “The cook told me about her. He buys cloves from her, that's why he mentioned it, but he said she can see the future as well.”

Thoros raised an eyebrow at the idea of riding into the swamp. Hag's Mire was a pleasant enough village, in a quaint, backwater way, and he had no desire of trading its cozy tavern for puddles of mud and the smell of peat. Beric would brush off the suggestion for sure. Out there in the bog, the air was humid and sticky and in here, there were comfortable chairs, good food and cool drinks from the cellar.

“My father received a witch once.”

There was an astute tone in Beric's voice that made this more than a casual statement and Thoros resignedly reached for his wine. The way Beric sounded suggested it would be the last cup before they'd be back on their horses, looking for a herbalist's shack between mud and dead trees.

“She requested permission for harvesting lichen in the small forest north of Blackhaven,” Beric continued. “I remember it because Maester Jeon found it so intriguing. He went with her to see what exactly she gathered and research it himself.”

 

﴾_____________________________________________________________________________________ ﴿

 

Thoros' instinct had been right. Beric got up when his mug was empty and inquired at the bar about the way to the hut of the witch. Thoros still didn't care for a ride through the mud, but he also thought it was fair, all things considered. They were this far north because of his invitation and Beric hadn't hesitated to come along, despite his dislike of weddings. He had agreed to the excursion to Hag's Mire upon Leiff's request when he could have had his peace and quiet closer to the Kingsroad. If he wanted to see a witch now and try to take a peek into his future, Thoros wouldn't spoil the diversion for him.

The air was just as humid and heavy as it been before they entered the tavern. At least the afternoon sun didn't add to the discomfort as they rode under the canopy of knotty, old trees that marked the edge of the mire ahead. Toads and frogs croaked somewhere between rocks, ferns and foliage, large dragonflies occasionally shot out of the thicket and disappeared in the shimmering air above the brown, murky lakes. Their path was made up of rickety structures in some places, moldy planks that vaguely resembled bridges just wide enough for one horse at a time. In other areas, they rode on soft ground pierced by ancient, thick roots and overgrown with mosses and mushrooms. They could make out a small peninsula in the distance, an enormous weirwood taking up almost all of the ground. Its face was turned north, away from the approaching riders, as if the tree overlooked the flat wetlands like a dutiful guard. A slanted hut leaned against the gnarly, white trunk; the residence of Leilinda the Dusk Witch, as the cook had called her while explaining the way.

“The campsite should be just up this hill,” Beric told the guards when he dismounted the horse. The group had arrived on a natural bridgehead where the trampled path split in three directions. Ahead of them to the north, trees were absent and the trail continued across makeshift bridges connecting small islands of more solid ground. To the west, where Beric had pointed, ancient trees clung to a hillside that stretched out to the edge of the village they had left hours ago. The tavern's cook had described a small clearing on the elevation where travelers made camp on the way to Seagard. There had been tales of will-o'-the-wisps that led people astray after dark and the cook urged Beric to stay near the weirwood at night. Just one year ago, a group of visitors to Hag's Mire had been lured off the safe paths and drowned in the moor, he said, and Beric promised to heed his warning.

The two guards waited for Thoros and Leiff to dismount their horses, then took the reins and led them up the crooked trail of the hill.

 

“Do all weirwoods grow this tall?” Beric turned south, watching the huge tree on the peninsula's edge for a moment, then looked to the ground, searching the moldy planks marking the path. The sun was setting behind the forest and the dusky twilight made it hard to see where they could step safely.

“No,” Leiff replied. “I've never seen one even close to it. This one must be ancient.” He took the torch Thoros handed him and held it closer to Beric. “Maybe there are some of this size on the Isle of Faces or beyond the Wall,” he added after some thought. “I've heard the one at Raventree Hall is the biggest, but it's dead and can no longer see.”

They carefully watched the ground as they approached the small hut, treading on one brittle plank after another. Fog slowly crept up above the dark waters and swallowed the remains of broken bridges, leading to nowhere or slumping down into muddy lakes. This was not a good place to be reckless with missteps; the soft ground was slippery with moss and wet leaves and nobody was keen on sharing the fate of the half-sunken dead tree to their right.

The witch's shack looked surprisingly well-maintained in the bog's unpleasant conditions. Though the wood was unpainted and darkened with age, there was no mold or moss growing on it. The streams from the Blue Fork and frequent rain in the area had allowed the thirsty weirwood to grow into a natural shelter, guarding its crooked, manmade neighbor from the worst of the weather. Across from the weirwood's face sat a large stack of boulders, the tree's thick, bleached roots reaching for it as if to hold those rocks in place. Between the trunk and the boulders, there was a soothed spot on the ground, surrounded by stones. A place for the Old Gods to bear witness, Leiff presumed, after noting with some surprise that the weirwood was smiling at it.

“Most weirwoods in the North have a sad face,” he said while drying some twigs on the torch for a fire. “My father said it's because they mourn the weirwoods the Andals chopped down. The Old Gods still care for the Southerners who used to pray to them, and it makes them sad that they can't watch over them through the eyes of their kin.” The twigs caught fire and Leiff put them down on the ground, then took a larger piece of a branch to feed the flames. “Some look angry or stern,” he continued, watching the flames lick the damp branch. “It is rather uncommon to see one that looks as kind and content as this one. It must be a good omen.”

“I hope so,” Thoros gave back, sat down on the boulders and took the wine from his belt. “You go ahead and talk to the witch. I'll wait here and watch the fire.”

“You're not curious what the future holds for you?” Beric stopped a few steps away and turned around.

“As much as any man,” Thoros replied and raised his bottle for a toast to the fire. “But that's between me and R'hllor. People don't take too kindly to it if his followers meddle with the affairs of their gods.”

“The Old Gods don't mind that not all people pray to them.” Leiff stuck the torch into the soft ground by the boulders and went over to Beric. “Many lords worship the Seven, but their castles still have a godswood and a heart tree in it. The Old Gods know they are welcome, even if there's also a sept.”

“See, that's the thing,” Thoros said after drinking a sip. “The Seven don't deny that the Old Gods exist. It's more that they accept them as competition, in an admittedly fairly friendly way after all that has happened. But I was taught the Red God is the One True God and everyone who does not follow him prays to demons, evil spirits of lesser nature or figments of their imagination.” He vaguely shook his head and stared to the fire. “I'm not sure any of it is true, if R'hllor exists, if there are gods besides him.” After a sigh and a pull from the bottle, he looked up to Leiff and Beric again. “But I know many find it disrespectful if a Red Priest broaches the subject of faith with them, even if all I say is only lip service.”

“I don't think the Old Gods would take offense.” Leiff shrugged, then closed the distance to Beric. “They know they exist, no matter what your god thinks.” He nodded to the fire, crackling and flickering through the twigs. “Maybe talk to your god and see what the weirwood has to say to him. They might get along better than you imagine.”

 

﴾_____________________________________________________________________________________ ﴿

 

When Leiff and Beric returned from the shack, the sky had gone dark and ragged clouds obscured the light of faint stars. The fire Thoros guarded illuminated the small camp by the weirwood and when Leiff, walking ahead, came closer he saw him holding a bunch of small bags. There was a swing in his step and a smile on his face, but Beric a few steps behind him seemed less excited.

“Look at those treasures!” Leiff proclaimed when he reached Thoros, holding his hands with the bags out to him. “Not only cloves, but also chervil, myrtle, and thyme! This would cost a fortune in White Harbor, but the witch didn't ask much.”

Thoros took the bags and inspected them, smelled each one and approvingly nodded. “So the witch predicted you'll elevate the fabled stew to its mythical taste?” he asked when returning the spices. He was about to get up, expecting to join the guards at the campsite, but Beric put a hand on his shoulder, suggesting him to stay seated.

“No, I did not ask about my own future. But it's a great idea and I'll try that once I can buy the other ingredients on a market.” Leiff sat down on a root of the weirwood and weighed the bags in his hands. “Witches have certain rules,” he then explained, looking over to Thoros who was joined by Beric on his rocky seat. “Leilinda can't tell a man his own future. The spirits she speaks to may allow it, she said, but the Old Gods are watching and they don't approve.”

Thoros returned the look slightly puzzled and threw a handful of twigs into the fire. “Then what did you discuss in there?” he asked, slowly turning to Beric, still quiet and sulky, with the hint of a stubborn pout on his face.

“Oh, witches are crafty,” Leiff replied with a wry smile. “She is allowed to reveal the fates of people as long as they are absent and won't hear the predictions from her lips. So she suggested asking about three people close to us. If we'd pick them wisely, the visions would grant a glimpse into our own future as well.”

“I see.” Thoros furrowed his brow in thought and took a pull from his wine, then offered the bottle to Beric. “Who did you pick then? Are you allowed to tell me what the witch saw?” Beric drank a sip, gave back the bottle and sullenly rested his head on Thoros' shoulder.

 

“I asked about my siblings,” Leiff said. “I have three of them and their future is uncertain, unlike mine. I already know I'll rule Frostspear Hall one year from now and when it comes to the lady I'll marry I prefer having some surprise to it.” He placed his spices on the knotty root next to him and gestured for Thoros' wine. “First, I asked about Benjen,” Leiff continued after taking a swig. “It sounded gloomy when she said I'll never see him again once he leaves the North. But the spirits told her I really didn't try to see my own path in life, so she was inclined to give me a few more details.” He returned the bottle to Thoros and leaned back against the trunk of the tree. “She saw a book written by my brother, about tactics of warfare on the sea. The image wasn't all that clear because the fog of time obscured it, but she thought she recognized the coast of the Sunset Sea and a tall tower.”

“There are many castles on the shores of the Westerlands,” Thoros noted. “You may get your wish and he'll become a maester in one of them instead of taking the black.”

“That's what I thought as well.” Leiff smiled brightly and nodded. “It makes me sad I won't see him again, but that's just part of being a maester. And I'll see my sisters, one of them very often, which is a comforting thought.” He laughed to himself before he revealed the prediction. “Dayana will marry for love, and the vision showed a man in silver steel and blue robes. It will take quite a long time though, the witch said Dayana looked older than twenty. And she stressed that last part, repeating it twice. I reckon she knew I began looking for matches and wanted me to know it's futile and the wedding cannot be hastened.”

Thoros laughed and even Beric interrupted his pouting and chuckled. “Just a wild guess,” Thoros said. “Blue is a popular color in many realms, but considering where your sister is fostered, I wouldn't be surprised if she weds a Valeman one day.”

Again, Leiff nodded, satisfied with this interpretation. “There are also many blue banners in the Riverlands,” he replied. “It makes no difference to me where Dayana finds love, but the witch saw the port of Gulltown in Wynne's future. She's the one I'll see 'very often', so I assume Dayana will also live in the Vale.”

“Gulltown? What a lucky girl your sister is.” Thoros drank from his wine, then passed the bottle to Leiff. “Been there many times and it felt like the place got more pleasant each time. Not too big, not too small and I always enjoy the markets. There's a big tourney each year and Robert never tires of praising the selection of wines and rare spirits from Essos. Though I'm sure there are also merchants selling things more suited for a young lady.”

“Wynne won't have to worry about such things,” Leiff gave back with a proud tone in his voice. “The witch saw ships from Braavos and Pentos and a house near the harbor. She said Wynne won't marry a knight or a noble, her husband will be from a place far away.” He drank a sip, then absently regarded the bottle. “A sea captain, I hope,” he added after a moment. “Wynne likes stories about ships and adventures. I'm sure she would gladly marry the hero of one.”

“Sounds like the future looks bright your family,” Thoros said, took the bottle back and waved it around in front of Beric's face. “And what about you? Why do you look so grumpy?”

 

Beric pushed the hand with the bottle away and sat up straight, quietly grumbling. “I tried to play by her rules,” he finally said. “I picked three people I thought would reveal my own future.” He briefly glared at Thoros, then took the wine from him and drank. “And what did I get? Riddles, as if you conspired with Renly and found the most confusing, vague phrases to spite me.”

Leiff smirked, Thoros laughed and put his arm around Beric's shoulders. “It's the prerogative of politicians, fools and prophets to speak in riddles,” he said. “Renly is the former, I could be any one of the latter. Maybe I can help and unravel the answers.”

Beric shot him another glare from the side and picked up a stick to poke around in the fire. “I asked about Anguy first,” he began. “He's as much a son of Blackhaven as I am, so I thought his fate is likely tied to our home. The answer wasn't too mysterious, the witch said he will find fame and fortune, but not abandon his roots.” Thoros was about to say something, but Beric went on. “Aye, it probably means he'll keep winning archery contests and stays at Blackhaven. But I don't need a witch's visions for such a prediction. My father keeps making remarks about his talents being wasted in the stables. I'm fairly sure he's just waiting for Anguy to outgrow the pranks and the drinking before offering him a more suited position.”

Thoros chuckled and stroked Beric's hair in an attempt of calming down his ruffled temper. “It's not the witch's fault Anguy will live such a predictable life,” he noted. “And the lack of world shattering events just means things will be well at home.”

Beric undecidedly nodded and poked the fire some stronger with his twig. “I asked about Renly next,” he said, now more frustrated. “My thinking was that the future of the Lord Paramount would give away the fate of the Stormlands.”

“But it didn't?” Thoros concluded.

“It didn't.” The stick cracked and broke in half and Beric sighed and dropped it. “'You will take his place.' That's all the witch had to say about him. Why in the world would I become the Lord Paramount of the Stormlands?”

“Maybe she didn't mean that title,” Thoros pondered out loud. “Renly is also the master of law. It seems he will marry Margaery Tyrell in the near future and Robert might let him return to Storm's End with his wife. He'd call someone to court to take Renly's place in the Small Council and he'd probably want a bannerman of his house if he can't have his kin.”

Beric thought about that for a moment, then shrugged. “Maybe, though I think he knows I'm no politician,” he gave back. “At least it would make more sense than what the witch said next.” He glanced at Thoros from the corner of his eye. “I asked about Loras to gauge my success on the lists. She told me 'he will die without ever having loved a woman'.” He sighed resignedly, then quietly laughed to himself. “Guess I should have seen that one coming.”

“I don't think visions reveal the reasons for things that happen,” Leiff interjected. “If witches could see who prefers men over women the realms would surely know it as well.”

“Good point,” Thoros agreed after some thought. “The visions I see are just pictures. They don't show me what men feel or think. Those things are always a matter of interpretation.”

“What is there to interpret about Loras?” Beric sighed again and put his head back on Thoros' shoulder. “Who he loves or not makes no difference on the lists.”

“A witch with no insights into his heart just sees an excellent knight who will never marry,” Thoros suggested. “Loving women often results in having children and perhaps the vision didn't show any bastards either. Kingsguards swear they won't take wives and father no children. If I'm not mistaken, Loras has his eyes fixed on the white cloak and his father approves.”

Beric shrugged and glared at the fire. “Maybe. But it still doesn't say a thing about me.” His eyes wandered to Leiff and rested on him with an unspoken accusation. “I'm not asking for much, just a small glimpse. Something like the vision of his sisters that leave room for speculation about his own life. I guess I wasn't as wise as thought when I named these three people...” His voice trailed off, then Beric's expression suddenly brightened and he looked at Thoros. “But you are...”

“No, no, no, don't give me those puppy eyes, Lord Sunshine!” Thoros tried sounding firm, though he had a creeping suspicion that this attempt was a lost cause. “I'm not going to ask the witch. Forget about it.”

Undeterred, Beric kept smiling as if he could see Thoros' reluctance burn away under his expectant eyes. “Please? Maybe the answers to you will give me a clearer picture.”

“What's the harm if you don't believe in such things anyway?” Leiff had built a small pyramid from his spice bags and chuckled when he looked up to Thoros.

Thoros sighed and got up from the rocks, conjuring a triumphant grin on Beric's face before he had even given an answer. “If that isn't fucking delightful,” he said, his voice colored with resignation as well as amusement. “The dutiful squire has his knight's back even when it comes to visions of witches.”

 

﴾_____________________________________________________________________________________ ﴿

 

“I knew there was another.”

Thoros looked around in the cramped shack, trying to find the source of the husky voice he had heard. The hut had a strong smell of spices, emitted by a crooked shelf filled with bowls, bags and small boxes and curtains hanging from the ceiling made the confined space seem like a dim maze of flickering shadows. A large table took up most of the floor in front of him, above it strings with dried leaves, mushrooms, and wooden beads with carved patterns stretched between shelves and walls. The shelves were stacked with a curious collection of trinkets; vases with feathers of various birds, yellowed scrolls, candles of many colors, a bucket with roots, a basket with vials of essences and oils, skulls, animal bones and more bowls of herbs. Behind and between the rickety boards, the walls were no less confusing. Crude drawings of eyeless faces and weirwoods were displayed alongside small paintings of the Seven, most showing the Crone and the Mother, and scrolls with scribbled sketches of plants. In the middle of the table, next to a carved symbol, stood a prominent statue portraying the Crone. It had a snake wrapped around it; a live one at that, Thoros noticed when he slowly came closer.

“Look, I don't mean to offend you,” Thoros began, still searching the women that had to be somewhere between the curtains and shelves. “I don't follow your gods and I know how people feel about the one I supposedly worship.” He hesitated before approaching the table, but the shimmering, yellow snake showed no interest in him. “It's just that my friend doesn't like riddles and begged me to name the same three friends again.” There was movement behind some curtains in a corner, behind what looked like a concealed doorway to another room. Thoros waited, but no answer came and so he just studied the clutter on the table. What the carved symbol showed, he couldn't guess, but there were cards scattered on it, an incomplete deck from the looks, along with two dice, one black and one white, mixed with pale, little bones, perhaps those of toads or lizards. “I understand if this request goes against your rules and I won't press the matter,” Thoros tried again and this time, he got a reaction.

The curtains parted and a woman stepped through them, slender and tall, with dusky brown skin and eyes the color of honey. Her face somehow seemed too young for the black hair to be mottled with grey, making it seem like a statement of fashion instead of a hint at the woman's age. Thoros instinctively made a step back at her sudden appearance. He certainly hadn't expected to see an Essosi this far in the West, yet it was undeniable that Leilinda was not a Riverlands native. Taken aback, Thoros waited for an answer without saying more.

Leilinda said nothing though. She regarded him carefully for a moment, then she took the snake from the Crone and slung the animal around her own neck. “You must leave,” she finally said, stern and foreboding. It was a statement, not a request or a warning and Thoros took another step back to the door.

“My apologies if my presence offends you,” he began, but Leilinda cut him off just as firm as before.

“You do not offend me,” she said, stepped to her table and began picking up the cards and bones from the symbol. Even on the short way, she carried herself with the grace of a queen. One dressed in a gown stained with moss and wrapped in a raggy shawl woven from undyed wool, but a queen nonetheless. “I can't give you any answers,” she added. “I refuse, but it is more than that.” She put the cards in a small, wooden box, then closed it and placed the dice on the lid. “The spirits I consult left when you entered. And I will not listen to the voice that now speaks.”

Confused, Thoros looked around in the room and slowly retreated to the hut's door. “I won't bother you then, my lady,” he said. “I'm sure your spirits will speak again once I'm gone.”

Leilinda's voice held him up when Thoros' hand was already on the doorknob. “Your friend,” she reluctantly began. “Never leave his side, wherever the path leads you. He'll need your light when darkness falls. He can't live without you.” Thoros regarded her for a moment and was about to ask what she meant, if she could be any clearer, but before he opened his mouth, she shouted at him. “Go now! Whatever questions you have, I'm not the one who will answer them!” The snake on her shoulder hissed and Thoros quickly left with an uneasy feeling.

On the way back to the camp by the weirwood Thoros wondered what he should reveal. Clearly, the witch had been offended, though she hadn't phrased it that way. Maybe Beric would be satisfied with the attempt of finding out more. Maybe, Thoros thought, it would be best if he claimed the witch had another rule and couldn't answer questions about the same people. Or he could say the answers were exactly the same as she had given to Beric. He reached the camp before he had made a decision and Beric's voice startled him from his thoughts.

“I'm sorry.” Beric stood near the path, a few steps away from the weirwood where the fire's last embers faded into the night. “I should have listened and accepted your refusal. You were right and...”

“How did you know the witch wouldn't answer?” Thoros asked, still bewildered by the strange events in the hut.

“The weirwood.” Leiff had left his spot on the thick roots as well and stood behind Beric, clutching the spices. Thoros' gaze wandered to the enormous tree, its white bark now looking grey in the darkness. “It's weeping,” Leiff added in a hushed, aghast tone.

 

﴾_____________________________________________________________________________________ ﴿

 

The camp on the hilltop felt eerie and forlorn, surrounded by ancient trees with much too thick branches for the sparse leaves they carried, but everyone made an effort of cheering up after leaving the weirwood behind. The guards had set up the tents and lit a small fire, and Leiff gave his spices a try with the spoils of their hunt. Up here, the ground was dry, all moisture sucked out by the trees competing for it; a welcome change after the slippery planks and spongy soil from before.

Thoros returned with new wine from the horses and sat down on a dead tree trunk, legs left and right of Beric, sitting on the ground and staring into the fire. “Stop brooding, my lord.” Thoros held the bottle over Beric's shoulder and slumped against his back from behind. “I can't blame you for being curious after Leiff got much clearer predictions. It was worth a try and nothing bad came of it,” he said, half to himself. Just scare tactics and superstitions of an annoyed witch to chase away visitors who had overstayed their welcome, he added in thought. The strange warning meant nothing, Beric had probably just tried to bargain with Leilinda. Had asked whether Thoros was 'absent enough' outside the hut because his fate was of most interest to him. Of course, they traveled together, it would have said the most about Beric's own future. The witch just twisted his meaning and spun an ominous portent from it, making clear she was done talking to her late guests and wanted them to leave.

Beric took the wine, but he didn't stop brooding and absently watched Leiff prepare the grouse with salt and thyme. “Maybe the predictions were fine and I was just greedy,” he said after a moment and opened the wine. “And becoming maester of law doesn't sound all that bad. If that really happens, I'll live in the Red Keep with you and Loras, assuming you're right and he joins the Kingsguard.” Thoros quietly nodded, took back the bottle and tightened his arm's grasp around Beric; somehow it felt right, though Thoros couldn't say why exactly. “I'm not sure I trust Anguy to watch over Blackhaven,” Beric added with a slight chuckle. “But I trust my father to not offer Anguy a position in the garrison before he starts acting his age.”

Again, Thoros nodded and took a pull from the wine. “If any of it comes true at all,” he said and put an arm over Beric's shoulder when he leaned back. “Maybe she gave you some riddles to keep your mind occupied and made them vague and mysterious because that's what people expect from witches.” He glanced to the fire, roaring high under the roast now, but no visions danced with the flames; the Red God remained silent.

 


	31. Winter Sun

“The knightly virtues,” Thoros thoughtfully began, glancing to Beric next to him on the long table. “Valor, loyalty, generosity, honesty and...” Beric ignored the lecture and calmly kept cutting the roasted lamb ribs, crusted with herbs, the wedding feast's second course. “...oh, I remember. And malice,” Thoros finished, but he still didn't get a reaction. Beric took the cup of wine, drank a sip, then turned his attention back to the food on his plate. It was only a matter of time until his proper facade would crackle though. Thoros saw he had trouble keeping a straight face since their arrival and the reason for it sat across from them on the opposite side of the Great Hall.

“I am not gloating, if that's what you're getting at,” Beric finally gave back before taking the first bite of the ribs. “I appreciate the beauty of justice having been served. That is very knightly.”

“It sure is.” Thoros chuckled into his wine cup and looked over to Ser Allon. The man had been unusually quiet and grumpy, and it bordered on a miracle that his eyes were not bleeding from all the angry glares he had directed at Beric throughout the day. It probably had something to do with Darien of Darry's brand new ballad and how well it was received by the audience. The notable circumstance of many young knights being among the wedding guests only added to Ser Allon's silent rage. The men who hadn't heard about his disgraceful defeat at the Crossroads Inn, one of the Riverlands' busiest taverns, had certainly asked about the new song and were told what had happened by now. It wouldn't be long until they'd take the tale home to their castles and realms; the Westerlands, the Vale, and even the North and the Iron Islands.

Thoros, Beric and Leiff had noticed the unusual amount of young knights and squires shortly after the Freys had finally opened the gate of their bridge and let the guests in. Ser Wynston with his bushy, white beard almost looked out of place among all the young bucks. At first, Beric had assumed most were friends of Lord Severyn, who rarely missed a tourney and hosted a popular festival on the banks of the Red Fork once a year. However, it soon turned out most of the knights had been invited by Lord Frey's sons, regardless of their relation to the groom and not without the reminder that they had many more sisters in need of good matches. Walder Frey evidently tried to make the most of the chance he sensed at this wedding. A son-in-law of Lord Severyn's repute should serve as inspiration; hopefully others would follow in his footsteps and take more daughters off Frey's hands.

 

“Has your squire spotted a potential lady yet?” Ser Amaron, sitting across from Thoros and Beric, inquired. “Or did the 'summer child' he met at the Gods Eye discourage him from looking further?”

“Not at all,” Beric replied. “He's still certain a wife from the Riverlands is the key to a good marriage, but so far no girl in particular has caught his eye.”

“He better be careful,” Ser Rylan noted. “I bet half of the girls in this castle are Lord Frey's daughters and granddaughters, if not more. Frey is pickier than he seems, just look what kind of men he invited. He wants titles and status and I'm not sure he cares a whole lot about some hills in the North.” He shot a quick glance over his shoulder and smirked when he was met by Ser Allon's furious stare. “And sometimes, not even wealth can overcome a bad reputation. Not even the Frey girls want Ser Allon The Gaudy.”

“That's not a very kind thing to say.” Beric looked up from his lamb ribs and he sounded genuinely irritated by that remark.

Thoros lowered his cup and regarded him, slightly puzzled. “You know, I think defending Ser Allon after all the insults he hurled at you takes chivalry one step too far...”

“I'm not defending Ser Allon.” Beric put the fork and knife away, reached for a piece of bread and dipped it into the sauce on his plate. “Of course no woman wants such a loudmouthed brute as her husband. I'm talking about Lord Frey's daughters. One shouldn't look down on them for the deeds of their father. I'm sure they don't like being praised like cattle on a market and would rather marry a man they desire instead of whoever pays Lord Frey the best price.”

Ser Rylan and Thoros exchanged a surprised glance, then both nodded. “You are right, it's neither their choice nor their fault,” Ser Rylan said after clearing his throat. “I have a good life since I joined Lord Rosby's garrison and could support a wife and a child. After the next course, I will ask Severyn to make introduction to some of his new wife's sisters. Maybe there's one I fancy among them. It worked out well for a dear friend, so why not for me?”

Beric leaned over to Thoros and absently took a bite from his bread. “ _That_ is 'taking chivalry one step too far',” he mumbled, barely audible on the opposite side of the table.

 

﴾ _____________________________________________________________________________________ ﴿

 

“Those are all his daughters and granddaughters?” Leiff quickly took another sip from his cup and averted his baffled stare from the table he and Ser Wynston's squire, Garey Piper, covertly observed. There were more than a dozen women and girls sitting and eating, the youngest perhaps five or six years of age. The only person on the table who looked older than twenty was a septa with a puffy, grandmotherly face.

“Those are all his _unwed_ daughters and granddaughters,” Garey corrected. “There are more who are sitting with their husbands on other tables. And I reckon there's a brother somewhere around here for each lass you see.” He poured the last wine from the carafe into his cup and directed Leiff's gaze to a group of knights with a slight nod. “Out of those five men, three have a Frey boy as squire. And Lord Darry's cupbearer is a grandnephew of Lord Frey as well.” He drank the small sip of wine, then got up from the table and took the empty carafe. “I'll find us a new drink and see if my knight needs me.”

Leiff emptied his cup and nodded, then got up from the long, wooden bench as well. “Mine looks well-entertained,” he gave back when he spotted Beric on Lord Darry's table, watching a juggler's performance with a group of other knights. “But I'd better ask if there's enough wine anyway. After all, Thoros is with him and Lord Darry's squires aren't prepared for that force of nature sweeping across the table.”

After Garey had left in the other direction, where Ser Wynston sat with a group of knights wearing the colors of House Belmore, Leiff strolled through the Great Hall toward the juggler. His way led him past the stage of the musicians and the open space in front of it where some people danced. Having passed the dancers, he had a better view on the table he and Garey had watched before and curiosity got the better of him. Leiff stopped by a column and leaned against it, then casually glanced over to the benches occupied by the girls.

There had been a lot hushed joking among the guards and squires on the way to the Twins, about the Frey girls being plain, homely, and dull. But what were the odds, Leiff had wondered. Even with the same cranky, old man as their father, there were eight mothers involved in all the offspring as well. And what Lord Frey lacked in beauty and grace, he made up for with wealth and power. It didn't seem possible he'd have to make do with ugly wives who'd birth ugly daughters, not that many in a row anyway. Leiff had seen Lady Joyeuse, the current and eighth wife, and while she was no Margaery Tyrell or Symone Hallsten, she wasn't the monster some guards had made her out to be. Neither was Lady Mayda, Lord Severyn's bride. She hadn't turned any heads when the veil was removed during the ceremony either. But once the feast and the music began, her expression was less solemn and she looked rather charming with a smile on her lips.

Leiff cursed the spot he had chosen to satisfy his curiosity when the next course of the feast was brought in. Servants with trays passed through his line of sight all of a sudden, carrying large, roasted turkeys and bowls of steaming hot soup. Maybe if he slipped through between them and made it to the next column, he'd be close enough for a better look.

 

“Quite a sight, aren't they?”

The breathy voice from the other side of the column made Leiff stop dead in his tracks. The line of servants had almost passed him and there would be a chance of crossing to the better spot in a moment, but Leiff didn't move. The ancient voice cackled and steps scuffed closer. “Lost for words? My girls must have made quite an impression.”

Slowly, Leiff turned around, his gaze respectfully lowered. “Apologies, my lord,” he began. “I meant no disrespect by staring like that. I always thought the Riverlands had the most beautiful women. Seeing so many of them gathered in one place is a bit overwhelming indeed.”

For a brief moment, slight surprise flashed on Walder Frey's wrinkly face, then made way for a crooked smile. “Can't blame you for that,” he replied, paused and appraisingly regarded Leiff for a short while. “From the far North, eh?” Frey made no attempt at being subtle about trying to figure out who stood before him and the lack of a visible coat of arms seemed to irritate him. “You don't sound like you're from White Harbor or Oldcastle.”

“I am not, my lord,” Leiff politely answered. “My home lies in the Lonely Hills, near the Last River. I had a long journey indeed, though I traveled here from the South with my knight.”

Lord Frey furtively narrowed his eyes. “Your knight?” he repeated, both skeptical and intrigued. “Rare sight, a squire from the lands of the Old Gods.” He shot a glance to the table and his daughters, then looked back to Leiff. “Who do you squire for? One of the Manderly knights? Or maybe House Locke? Will you be landed once you receive knighthood?”

“I serve Lord Beric Dondarrion of Blackhaven,” Leiff gave back. “He will not knight me though, as we have an agreement of a different nature. I perform the tasks asked of a squire in exchange for a chance of traveling before I take my father's place as Lord of Frostspear Hall. For now, being a squire serves a purpose. It allows me to enter tourneys and I make good money in them. But once I have a Northern keep to rule, knighthood...”

“I see, I see,” Lord Frey interrupted and furrowed his brow in thought. “You're the heir, you won't have time for fancy distractions and you're in it for the money for the time being.” He paused and regarded Leiff silently like a strict septon pondering the confession of a sinner. “Practical. I like that,” he finally added, then came straight to the point. “A lord needs a lady. Have you made any plans in that regard?” Leiff shook his head, but before he could answer, Walder Frey bared his remaining teeth in a wide smile. “Maybe you want to take a look at my girls then,” he suggested. “Well mannered, well educated and they all possess the beauty Riverlands women are known for.”

Now Leiff looked up from his empty cup to blankly stare at Lord Frey. He sounded serious about this proposal, even eager. But he had to know that there was no wealth in the Lonely Hills, that there were no settlements or major castles on the banks of the Last River; nothing a man of his standing could possibly want. “You honor me, Lord Frey,” Leiff cautiously replied. “Though I must ask about the dowry you have in mind before I...”

“Greedy little shits these days,” Frey muttered under his breath, then quickly put up his best attempt at a warm smile again. “Five gold dragons. Six, if you take a girl older than sixteen years of age. You can have coins or horses adding up to that value, it's up to you once the knot has been tied.”

Leiff regarded Lord Frey with bewilderment, but apparently this answer was not meant as mockery. The old man seemed to be serious and just grew impatient for an answer. Baffled, Leiff wasn't sure what to say, so he nodded and shot a quick glance to the girls. It was all Lord Frey needed. The furtive grin turned into a wide smile, Leiff's empty cup was taken from his hand and Frey grabbed his arm to turn him toward the table. “Go ahead, take a look at them,” he said, clearly satisfied with Leiff's reaction, then snarled at a servant scurrying by with tray of empty bowls to serve new wine.

 

﴾ _____________________________________________________________________________________ ﴿

 

The juggler, a skinny man with a fiery, red mustache, wouldn't have been all that entertaining just by himself. What made the performance so amusing was the silent battle he fought with Darien for the audience's attention. So far, the juggler hadn't dropped a ball and almost stoically continued his tricks while Darien covertly glared at him from the side, waiting for the slightest mistake. Ser Amaron had begun rewarding the juggler's efforts with disproportionate applause a while ago. Though there hadn't been any new tricks, others had joined in his comical display of enthusiasm. By now, Lord Darry was leading the way and pondered out loud if he should hire the juggler for his young son's name day in the upcoming month. Darien was internally fuming. He tried his best to grin and bear it, but he couldn't resist snide remarks about being bored by colorful balls and juggling not counting as a real form of art. Why he stayed where he was remained a mystery though; there were other tables without jugglers where a good story or poem would have been welcome. Maybe, Beric thought, Darien was secretly happy for the chance of taking a break from performing his songs throughout the day.

The theory held up when the juggler finally finished his admittedly somewhat repetitive performance and left the table in search of some beer. As soon as he was gone, Darien got up from his seat and made his way to the musicians' stage, not to play, but to find himself a lady to dance. Lord Severyn was dancing with his bride there, both seemed to be tireless and in a great mood. Ser Rylan, on the other hand, looked relieved when he sensed the chance of passing Tyta Frey on to Darien, then quickly returned to Lord Darry's table and waved to a servant for more wine.

 

“What is Leiff doing there?” Beric did a double take after his eyes had followed Darien across the Great Hall. “Aren't those Lord Frey's daughters?”

Thoros turned around a bit and threw a glance over his shoulder. “Aye, some of them anyway,” he gave back, then quickly raised his empty cup when a servant approached the table with a carafe.

“Do you think talking to them is a good idea?” Beric's baffled stare still rested on Leiff on the other side of the hall. “I doubt Lord Frey would be happy seeing a squire his sons didn't invite with his daughters.”

“Lord Frey already saw it,” Thoros replied with a slight shrug. “He was talking to Leiff a few moments ago. From what I can tell, Frey looked happy seeing an uninvited squire show interest in his daughters and actually told him to speak to the girls. Invited or not, Leiff is the heir of his house and that makes him a good enough match in Frey's mind.”

Beric's eyes immediately jumped to Thoros. “You saw that and you didn't think you should tell me? He's still my squire! I should be informed if...”

“Aye, your squire,” Thoros calmly cut him off. “Not your son. You told him it's fine to look around for a lady. That's exactly what he's doing over there.”

Beric took a deep breath and leaned closer. “I gave him permission, aye, but I didn't think he'd get pulled into the schemes of Walder Frey.”

“What did you expect?” Thoros whispered back. “Half the women attending this wedding are related to him in some way.”

“I thought Darien would introduce Leiff to a few girls from smaller houses”, Beric quietly said. “House Haigh or House Nayland, perhaps, I think Darien said they have daughters close to Leiff's age.”

“And both are sworn to House Frey.” Thoros took a sip from his wine and pulled a basket with sweet bread closer. “Can't hurt being on good terms with Lord Walder either way. He'd probably take offense if Leiff actively avoided his daughters and only talked to girls of sworn houses instead.”

Beric sighed and took some of the sweet bread, then undecidedly turned it in his hand. “You're right, but there has to be a middle path here. Not offending the host is one thing, being pressured into a marriage by him is another.”

Thoros looked over his shoulder, then turned back to Beric and shrugged again. “He doesn't look pressured to me. And I'm sure if something of that nature happens, he'll come here and consult his knight about the matter.”

 

﴾ _____________________________________________________________________________________ ﴿

 

Leiff stood in front of the table, back straightened and the attempt at a stern look on his face. He could at least give the impression of knowing where to begin this quest. Back at the Gods Eye, it had proven difficult to ask the right questions and determine if the girl would be suited for life in the North. It had been only one, not a good dozen, all looking at him with expectant eyes, and that would require a different approach. In contrast to the girls, the septa didn't even pause eating her soup. She had the demeanor of someone who went through the upcoming motions so frequently, the situation had lost all its excitement and promise to her. While Leiff wondered whether he should address all of the girls at once or take them aside one by one to ask his questions, Lord Frey, followed by a servant, joined the gathering. It didn't make the task any easier though, as Frey rattled down names and ages, mixing some up and being quietly corrected by some of the girls.

“Does one catch your eye yet?” he nonchalantly turned to Leiff after the rushed introduction. “Shirei, perhaps? Or maybe Arwyn? Take your time, I know it can be hard to decide.”

Leiff's eyes wandered across the girls on the benches, slowly, so it would buy him time to consider his answer. There was one who stood out, he had noticed her even before approaching the table. She looked his age, had pale skin with freckles and long, straight hair, brown with a touch of red as if the last light of a setting sun was caught in the strands. But Lord Frey seemed much too eager to close his deal for Leiff's taste. It wouldn't be wise to let on he had a favorite before getting a chance of talking to her. Who knew, maybe the late sun in her hair also colored her temper and she wanted dances and fancy dresses the North didn't have

“You are right, it is no easy choice,” Leiff carefully answered. “And I have always admired that you take the time to consider what's best for your house in the future. So you will understand that I must take the long view for my house as well.” Frey regarded him furtively and waited for a further explanation, though the impatience shone through his smile. “I mean no offense to the ladies I have to dismiss,” Leiff continued. “But I need to narrow the choice down to a few. Therefore, I cannot consider those younger than thirteen or those who are older than me.”

The words immediately lit up Lord Frey's wrinkly face. He took a cup from the servant's tray, poured down the wine and waved to the table. “You heard what the lad said! Get over here, whichever of you are between thirteen and...” He paused and looked to Leiff.

“Fifteen,” Leiff finished for him. “I'll be sixteen later this year.”

As he had hoped, the auburn-haired girl was among those that rose from the bench and hurried over, but he still kept up the facade and didn't let his face betray his excitement. “May I speak to them? I couldn't decide going just by their beauty,” he turned to Lord Frey.

“Eh, if you must.” Frey shrugged and glared to the girls, a silent reminder to be on their best behavior. “Just let me know when you made a choice,” he added, then turned around and scuffled back to his guests, leaving the four girls standing with Leiff.

 

﴾ _____________________________________________________________________________________ ﴿

 

The septa still hadn't finished her soup and was now slowly dipping a slice of bread into it. She still didn't look interested in the events nearby either. Had she not waved Leiff over and wordlessly motioned him to a corner behind her, he would have thought she didn't even know he was there at all. Lord Frey, though he sat on his table again, made up for the septa's lack of attention. He watched the corner with eagle's eyes, furtive and narrowed, except when Leiff briefly glanced over and Lord Frey produced an encouraging smile. Apparently he took it as a good sign that there were only two girls left after Leiff's first question; a quick decision was what he was after.

Leiff had been blunt and asked what the girls thought about the possibility of life in the North. One had grimaced and lied through her teeth, saying she couldn't imagine anything better than that. The second girl hesitated for a long time, then said she wasn't sure how people could live in the perpetual cold. The remaining girls, the auburn-haired one and a blonde with curls, had shrugged and agreed that the North was as good as any other realm.

“There are no septs in the North,” Leiff began his next question. “You might be able to visit one in White Harbor once or twice every year, but it is a very long way from my keep. Would that bother you?”

The blonde one answered first, after a cautious glance to Lord Frey. “It would, my lord,” she admitted, whispering as if her father could hear her words. “The Stranger spoke to me in a dream last year, in the night before my thirteenth name day. He said I was destined for a life of devotion to him.” She looked to the septa, still hunched over her soup. “Septa Luissa thinks it means he wants me as his handmaiden. I reckon I could lead a devout life as a lord's lady as well, but I'd still want to serve the Stranger above all living men. I imagine there is no lack of death in the North, but without septs, there are no proper burials and that thought disturbs me”

Leiff blankly stared at her for a moment. He hadn't expected such a morbid answer, though he was also relieved that the blonde girl had this strange fascination with death, not his favorite. It would be a gamble dismissing another girl and putting all his eggs into one basket before he had heard the last answer, but this was a risk he was willing to take. “I think you should follow your calling then,” he gave back, still somewhat aghast. The blonde smiled, took a slight bow and returned to the table, apparently completely unconcerned by her dismissal. Leiff took a deep breath to gather his thoughts, then turned to the last girl standing in his corner. “What about you, Lady...” he began, but she politely cut him off right away.

“Actually, my grandfather got it wrong during the introduction. I'm not Cora, that's my cousin. My name is...”

“Kareena,” Leiff finished. “I remember you corrected him, but Lord Frey just kept talking.”

A bit surprised, Kareena nodded and smiled. “He rarely pays attention to me,” she said. “So I don't blame him for never getting it right. My father, Waylen Frey, died at Pyke long ago and my mother, Lady Eveline Farday, died when I was born. My aunts and uncles raised me, but I'm usually not on my grandfather's mind when he thinks of his daughters.” She laughed and brushed a strand of hair out of her face. “Two years ago, I was supposed to be betrothed to a man from the Vale, but some of my uncles stepped in when they heard he was widowed twice to wives younger than me. Sometimes I think grandfather forgot that wedding never happened, so he doesn't remember I'm still here either.”

Leiff glanced over her head to Lord Frey, but this time no feigned smile met his eyes. The juggler had taken position in front of the lord's table and attracted the attention of Lord Frey and his guests. “Maybe you won't be here for much longer.” Leiff looked back to Kareena. “Unless you, too, wouldn't want to live in a keep with no sept.”

“The gods don't care where one prays,” Kareena replied with a slight shrug. “My cousin is just a bit strange about her faith since she had that dream.” She paused and appraisingly regarded Leiff for a moment. “If I become your lady, would I have my own chambers?” Leiff nodded, not sure what the girl meant by the question, but it was enough of an answer for her. “Good,” she said and the smile returned. “I'm so tired of sharing everything with my cousins. If I have my own chambers, I could keep a small statue of the Maiden there for my prayers. I've seen some in White Harbor once when I traveled there with my uncle.”

“Of course, that seems easy enough,” Leiff said, now smiling himself; the conversation went the way he had hoped. “There are also talented woodworkers at my keep. If you describe how they should look, they could make statues of all Seven Gods for you.”

Kareena considered that for a moment. “That would be good,” she then said. “I'll need a statue of the Mother once I give you a child and it would be more practical than making the long journey to White Harbor.” She shot a snide glance over her shoulder and sighed. “I wish I could make them myself, but I suppose carving wood is not a proper pusuit for a lady.”

“Maybe not here,” Leiff replied with a wide smile. “But my lady can do as she pleases to pass time at my keep. Maybe you could also make figurines of owls and wolves and we could sell them as keepsakes. Sometimes there are travelers staying for the night on their way to the Wall and they often ask about gifts they can bring back for friends and family.”

Kareena's eyes widened in disbelief and excitement. “That would be wonderful!” she gasped, then her face darkened and she briefly glared at the septa. “Embroidery and sewing, I can take or leave. But she tries to teach me playing the harp and I just have no talent for it. It's so frustrating I still have to practice,” she added in a hushed voice.

Leiff laughed and shook his head. “You don't know what a relief it is to hear that. Darien of Darry introduced me to a potential match on our journey. All she cared for was music and dancing, and she spoke about Northern culture as if it was an foreign spectacle for curious Southerners.”

“I am educated about Northern customs.” Kareena's face now looked more thoughtful. “But I admit I haven't seen much of it myself, nor can I remember much of the last winter.”

“That doesn't bother me at all,” Leiff gave back. “I always knew I'd marry a girl from the Riverlands and that she'd have her own customs. I'll respect hers, she'll respect mine, and we can learn from each other.”

Kareena hesitated before she answered. “I will try to bring some of my summer to the North then,” she said. “Though I think I like autumn best. It sounds so nice when Septa Luissa speaks about leaves turning red and beginning to fall.”

“I don't need your summer, my lady.” Leiff shook his head. “If your grandfather gives us his blessing, we'll just meet halfway between the seasons.” He offered his arm to Kareena. “Are we expected to dance now?”

Kareena's expression said 'Seven Hells, no', but her lips phrased it more politely when she took Leiff's arm. “I have two left feet, I'm no good at dancing. We could watch the juggler instead or bring my grandfather some wine, so he can toast to the good news of having one mouth less to feed soon.”

 

﴾ _____________________________________________________________________________________ ﴿

 

“Thoros!” Beric's voice was hushed and upset at the same time. “Look, he's leading a girl toward Frey's table!” He nudged Thoros, who continued drinking his wine and watching the musicians, tapping his food in their song's upbeat rhythm. “This has gone far enough,” Beric tried again, this time more urgent. “I can't stand by while Frey turns Leiff into a pawn of his political schemes. What am I supposed to do now? I have to do something!” He was about to get up when he finally got a reaction. Thoros set his cup down on the table, put a hand on Beric's shoulder and held him on his seat.

“You do nothing,” he calmly replied. Beric wanted to protest, but Thoros didn't let him get a word in. “While you were glowering at Leiff's corner, I kept an eye on Lord Frey,” he explained. “There's no coercion. Frey looked over to them a few times, but he lost interest after Leiff sent two girls away. He's been watching the juggler instead of them.” Beric silently glared at him, Thoros took another sip from his wine. “And he looked quite entertained, if you ask me. That juggler has a bright future ahead, he keeps impressing lords wherever he goes.”

 

﴾ _____________________________________________________________________________________ ﴿

 

“May I introduce my lady, Kareena Frey?” Leiff's voice startled Beric who had intently glared in a different direction, heeding Thoros' advice to not stare at Lord Frey. Beric spun around and abandoned the plan of pelting Leiff with pressing questions in the same motion. The lady was right there, smiling and dropping a polite curtsy to greet Thoros and him. “My knight, Lord Beric Dondarrion of Blackhaven,” Leiff unblinkingly continued. “And Thoros of Myr...”

“And I thought you named renowned people just to make an impression on my grandfather,” Kareena interjected and laughed. “So you are really friends with Ser Loras' squire? And you really have a sister fostered in the Vale?”

Beric was still too baffled for an appropriate reaction. He reached for his wine and drank in small sips, buying time to get a grasp on the situation at hand. Thoros was less thunderstruck and offered Kareena the seat Lord Darry had abandoned in favor of the dancefloor a short while ago. “Aye, your future husband indeed consorts with important people,” he said with a chuckle. “Didn't he mention the times when King Robert tried to lure him away from his knight?”

Kareena chuckled as well and let go of Leiff's arm to sit down on. “He did not,” she replied. “But I'd love to hear all about it. I always enjoy listening to tales from distant places, even more so if the man I'll wed experienced those things firsthand.”

The mention of a wedding threw Beric off once more and Leiff poured oil in the fire of his knight's bewilderment. “You'll be well-entertained with my friends then,” he said. “I'll leave you to it and speak to your grandfather. He wants to make the arrangements before the bedding ceremony and the evening grows old.”

 

﴾ _____________________________________________________________________________________ ﴿

 

The solar felt cold this late in the event, apparently the fire in the hearth had been lit just a few moments ago. It was dim as well, as only a few candles illuminated Lord Frey's desk, aided by a lone torch on the wall.

“I'm a suspicious man.” Walder Frey glared up from the parchment he hunched over and regarded Leiff, standing in front of the desk, with furtive eyes. “You know why this wedding is such a big celebration and a waste of good money? Because it's rare a man so willingly takes one of my girls as his wife.” He didn't wait for an answer and continued scribbling on the scroll.

“The reason for that is a mystery to me, my lord,” Leiff replied. “It was a pleasure speaking to those lovely ladies and they certainly didn't make my choice an easy one.”

“Stop it already!” Frey barked and lowered the feather he held. “We have an agreement. Now speak your mind. I rather know a man's true intentions than be left in the dark with nothing but flattery and polite lies.”

Taken aback, Leiff thought for a moment and glanced at the parchment detailing their arrangement. “I have always respected your house very much and find its history inspiring,” he then carefully began. “It is a great honor to...”

“Of course, of course,” Frey cut him off and cackled to himself. “Very inspiring indeed.” His brow suddenly furrowed and his voice returned to a stern, almost angry tone. “I know what people say about my house and its history and you know that as well. What I want you to tell me is why you didn't hesitate or haggle.”

“Aye, I know what people say,” Leiff earnestly replied. “And I have a different perspective on it than 'most people'. My bloodline doesn't trace back to ancient heroes either. Of course I look up to a house that grew from humble roots to the Lords of the Crossing, with wealth and power earned by hard work. People call you a coward and say you acted dishonorably because your soldiers arrived at the Trident once the battle was over. But honor often compels men to act without thought toward their people. You broke no oath at the Trident, my lord. It cost you your reputation, but you spared your men from fighting another man's battle.”

Frey now looked thoughtful, baffled even, and absently put the feather back in the ink jar. For a while, he said nothing and just appraisingly watched Leiff standing there, unfaltering and not showing any signs of deception. “Go on,” he finally said, the anger gone from his voice and replaced by curiosity instead.

“I have heard numerous warnings,” Leiff continued, calm and collected. “There were warnings whenever people spoke about dealings with House Frey. Some said you'd betray anyone if it brought you an advantage, that you'd stab even friends in the back for the right price.” He cleared his throat and carefully watched Frey's reaction, but there wasn't even a quiet sneer at those words. “I don't have anything you would want,” Leiff went on. “You have fertile lands, wealth and power, I have none of it. All I can offer to you is my loyalty. I simply have nothing to lose in our deal.”

Frey nodded and smiled a satisfied smile, then his brow once more furrowed in thought. “What if I asked you to hand me the knife? If I wanted your assistance in my next devious betrayal?”

Leiff couldn't tell if the old man was joking; the stern expression didn't match the jesting tone of his voice. But there was no time for long deliberation, Frey's glare demanded an instantaneous answer. “Then I would hand you the knife,” Leiff replied, a bit shaken when he realized he had spoken the truth. “I'm sworn to House Bolton,” he slowly added. “A man who wouldn't have hesitated sending his soldiers into a battle of uncertain consequences. A man who doesn't care about his people at all. I value family above all other things. If it came down to it, I'd place my loyalties with my wife and her kin.”

Without a saying a word, Frey pushed the parchment with the dried ink over the table, then quickly withdrew it when Leiff reached for it. “I like your honesty,” Frey simply said. He took the feather and added another note on the scroll. “Six gold dragons or horses of the same value, even if Cora... Kareena is younger than sixteen.” He smiled and blew on the ink, then handed the scroll to Leiff. “We stand together from now on.”

 


	32. Bittersweet

“It's been two weeks since we left the Twins now,” Leiff said when he returned from the inn's barn with the horses. The sun had just risen above the Roseroad, the morning air was still cool, and Leiff was in a good mood despite the early hour. “If all goes as planned, my lady will arrive at Frostspear Hall just when we reach Highgarden tonight.”

Beric raised an eyebrow at him and took the reins of his horse. “Doesn't it worry you that your lady will have spend more time with your family than with you by the time you get married? I thought my cousin's rushed wedding to a girl he barely knew was enough of a cautionary tale.”

Leiff handed the reins to Thoros, then mounted his own horse and shook his head when he was in the saddle. “Not at all. It is important she gets along with my family, though I have no concerns in that regard either. I asked her to tell Benjen about her uncles, those who became maesters, before he leaves for the Citadel once I return home. My mother and sister will just love her, and my father will be proud that I'll wed a lady from a Great House. It's a pity Kareena won't meet Dayana though, but I reckon one day we'll just visit her in the Vale.”

“You don't love her,” Beric dryly interjected when Leiff paused and took a deep breath after the excited torrent of words. “You've known her for less than a day.” He sighed and climbed on his horse, then turned around to Leiff. “I don't mean to sound so dismissive,” he added in a more amicable tone. “I just fear you might regret such a hasty decision. You only talked to Kareena briefly and Lord Frey certainly made sure she was on her very best behavior. It might be too late when you discover sides you dislike about her. Things that would have made you reconsider the betrothal, had you known them before. Doesn't it strike you as odd that Lord Frey was so eager to have her brought to your keep right away?”

“That's just Frey being Frey.” Thoros pulled his horse next to Beric's. “He wants his offspring out of sight, out of mind, the sooner the better. It doesn't mean there's some dark secret about Leiff's lady.”

Beric shook the reins and the horses started trotting down the Roseroad, lined with fields of corn and wheat swaying softly in the light of the early sun.

“Lord Renly doesn't love Lady Margaery either,” Leiff noted after a short silence. “Yet you don't have concerns about their wedding.”

Leiff was alarmingly right, Beric realized. “That is different,” he quickly said, then tried to think of a reason to back the words up.

The news of Renly's betrothal had ravaged the realms like a storm of wildfire. People talked about the upcoming wedding in every tavern and inn, and not once had it struck Beric as strange. Loras had laid out the full picture, and a weird mosaic of deception it was. Did that make things different, that both Renly and Margaery had ulterior motives and were honest about those with each other? In a way, it made their arrangement oddly honest, even though they planned to put on a lifelong act for the public.

“Renly and Margaery have been close friends for years,” Beric finally answered his own unspoken question. “You know that things are different for Renly. He can't marry for love, not the way other men can. Lady Margaery understands this situation. They both know what they are doing and see an advantage in it.”

“Lady Kareena and I can be friends first as well,” Leiff gave back. “I like her. She likes me. That's a good start, wouldn't you say?”

Thoros nodded, but Beric still didn't seem convinced. “And how will you become friends if she's in the North while your horse is headed South toward Dorne as we speak?”

“I'll buy parchment and ink in Oldtown,” Leiff promptly replied. “We'll send letters to each other while I'm away. I'll write about my journeys with you, she'll send a raven back with a tale of her own.”

“That's a nice way to learn more about the other,” Thoros said and gave Leiff an approving nod. “To me it seems your knight underestimated your foresight and you're doing just fine with your plans for the future.”

 

﴾ _____________________________________________________________________________________ ﴿

 

The sky above Highgarden blurred the oranges and reds of dusk with greyish purple and dark clouds heralding a night of thunder and rain. It almost felt like Beric had summoned the storm with his gloomy mood and watched the harvest of his inner turmoil from the window when Thoros entered the chambers. Beric didn't turn around at the sound of the door falling shut, he kept glaring down to the terrace gardens and the training yard. Down there, Renly and Margaery drank wine under a gazebo overgrown by peach-colored roses and watched the same thing that captivated Beric's attention. Loras practiced his sword skill with Leiff and Iagan, both attacking him with wooden training weapons and having fun doing so.

There was still no reaction when Thoros came closer, almost stomping in an attempt of making his presence known. Beric didn't leave his spot by the window, he only moved slightly to rest his chin on his other hand. Undeterred, Thoros leaned over him and peeked outside, though he already knew what Beric was staring at and needed no confirmation.

“We always knew this would happen,” Thoros quietly said. “You both agreed on these terms, remember?” Instead of answering, Beric flattened himself on the windowsill to escape the tickling of Thoros' beard on his neck. “Life will be hard enough for him when he returns to his keep. He'll see his father wither away and say goodbye to his brother. Don't spoil the good things for him by being so sullen,” Thoros continued and leaned closer until Beric quietly grumbled and shook his head.

“I know, I know.” Beric sighed, both at the subject of their conversation and the realization that he couldn't merge with the windowsill to evade the tickling beard. “It's just that I never expected this sudden turn of events.”

“What's so sudden about it?” Thoros rested his chin on Beric's shoulder and ceased the tickling, now that he had Beric's attention. “Did you think he'd change his mind, abandon his ancestral castle and stay at Blackhaven as a housed knight?”

For a while it was silent and both watched the practice on the yard far below. “I thought there might be a chance,” Beric admitted after some hesitation. “He seemed so proud of being my squire on our way to the Twins. I didn't think it would end with him choosing a girl he barely knows over me.”

“He _is_ proud.” Thoros grabbed Beric and tried to pull him away from the window, but he had no success. “And he didn't choose a stranger. He choose his family, that was always his choice and we always knew he'll return to them when he comes of age.”

“Aye, I always knew that,” Beric gave back, his voice quiet and saddened. “It just never felt real. It seems so long ago that we made the agreement that I forgot it would really happen one day.” Outside on the yard Loras yielded, laughing after being disarmed by two wooden swords. Leiff and Iagan pointed their weapons at each other; a challenge, perhaps they disagreed whether they should spare their defeated foe's life. “And there was always wishful thinking,” Beric continued. “He's become such a good swordsman and did so well in recent competitions. A part of me still held out hope he'd change his mind about knighthood, that we'd keep traveling together for many more years. The betrothal came as a rude awakening from that daydream. I need some time to make my peace with the reality that this is Leiff's last year as my squire.”

“Aye, as your squire.” Thoros absently watched the duel taking place in the yard. “But not as your friend. He won't forget you when he returns home in a few months. And you both have kin in the Vale. We'll meet there every once in a while and drink to old times.”

“And we will.” Beric nodded, though he still sounded pensive.

“You could send him ravens a as a wedding gift,” Thoros suggested when Beric didn't say anything else. “If his rookery has a large flock again, you can send letters back and forth as much as you like. I don't think that's a privilege reserved for Lady Kareena.” He paused and shot Beric a glance from the corner of his eye. “What do you really think about her anyway? All jealousy about stealing your squire aside?”

Beric answered with a reproachful side glance of his own and there was finally a small smile on his lips. “Going by the short conversation we had, she seems like a good match for Leiff. And though I don't like the idea of him marrying a stranger, he didn't act as irresponsibly as I made it out. He didn't wed the first girl he was introduced to, he put much consideration into his choice, and thought things through.” He propped himself up on the windowsill and Thoros released him from the grab. “I should apologize for comparing him to my cousin,” Beric added, now less gloomy, and stepped away from the window. “I'll tell him I approve of his betrothal, though I'll omit that the name 'Frey' makes me a little uneasy. Leiff is well aware of Lord Frey's reputation. If it doesn't worry him, I need to respect that.”

“Hear, hear.” Thoros chuckled and leaned against the wall next to the window to let Beric through to the door. “Sounds like Renly's diplomatic vein rubbed off on you. If you take his place as Master of Law, that will come in handy.”

“If,” Beric pointedly replied. “I still doubt that the king thinks I make a good politician.”

“He didn't think Renly would,” Thoros gave back. “Stannis and Jon Arryn did. They appointed him to that position. And I haven't seen Stannis this angry in a long time. Renly hit a sore spot when he announced the wedding will take place at Highgarden instead of Storm's End.”

Beric stopped by the door, his hand already on the heavy, rose-shaped doorknob. “See, that makes it only less likely. I met Stannis twice in my life and I was still a small child. If he selects the king's council I won't be on his mind.” He opened the door, but turned around to Thoros instead of leaving the room. “Don't mention the ravens to Leiff. It's a good idea and I wouldn't want you to spoil the surprise.”

“My lips are sealed,” Thoros gave back with his best impression of a stern face. “Though it really isn't that surprising that you like the idea, considering your good relation with birds.”

 

﴾ _____________________________________________________________________________________ ﴿

 

Renly's recent betrothal had not been surprising either, yet the good news brought nothing but trouble in their wake. Thoros had no idea what got into Renly after Mace Tyrell had given his blessing a few weeks ago. The official announcement had become the source of much resentment in the quarrel of the Baratheon brothers and after years of stoic silence, the third one of them had gotten involved. Not only had Renly set the date of the event two weeks after Robert's name day, which made His Grace think his baby brother was trying to steal away his attention. Renly had also decided on Highgarden as the location, with the vague explanation that Storm's End held a too great risk for bad weather and he'd rather not have rain on his wedding day. Though Thoros didn't know the real reason for the bold choice, he knew exactly why Stannis took such offense.

Not long after Robert had taken the throne, the newly crowned king had given Storm's End, House Baratheon's ancestral castle, to Renly. Stannis, their middle brother, had endured a grueling siege when holding the castle during the Rebellion and thought, not entirely unfounded, that Storm's End should go to him. But instead, Robert had given him Dragonstone, the former seat of the dynasty they had rebelled against, located on an island just at the entrance of the Blackwater Way. Thoros had never asked why and Robert had never justified his decision. He had appointed Stannis as Master of Ships on the Small Council, but it seemed more like an afterthought than a reason for denying him their ancestral castle.

Stannis perceived Renly's choice of wedding location as a slap in the face. He had called him ungrateful, spoiled and disloyal and those insults were music to Robert's ears. “This is how the prissy brat thanks me?” he had barked at Thoros between two bottles of wine. “I gave him Storm's End! Our history, our blood runs in those walls! And he dismisses it in favor of some smelly flowers?” Some of Robert's words sounded more like they came from Stannis' mouth when the rant continued. The news had just made the rounds and the wound to Stannis' pride was still fresh, bleeding into the king's judgement. “I thought the wedding to a woman would finally put an end to those rumors about Renly's indecent affairs! That's why I sanctioned the betrothal, not to do him a favor! And instead of repairing the damage to our blood's reputation, people will see House Baratheon divided. The fawn prances around, adorning himself with roses, what does that say about us?”

Thoros knew there was no point in telling Robert otherwise. They were both too drunk to speak or see reason. So he let the storm rage and listened to the king's thunder, hoping the weather would change once all was said and done.

 

﴾ _____________________________________________________________________________________ ﴿

 

The scene outside the gates of Highgarden didn't instill more confidence in Thoros that Renly would get his sunshine either. A carriage, surrounded by several guards of House Tyrell, stood on the road beyond the bridge. Inside it was Lady Margaery, chatting through the open door with Loras and Renly, cheerful as usual, as if nothing of note was happening on the other bank of the Mander. Thoros, Beric and Leiff politely tried to ignore it as well, but keeping up the illusion of disinterest wasn't easy.

"Mother, please! Think it over again!” Lord Mace Tyrell followed Lady Olenna a few steps onto the bridge, sputtering pleas that fell on deaf ears. What he lacked in persuasiveness, he made up for with determination, culminating in a daring yet unsuccessful attempt at blocking her way. “It is a long and laborious journey! We have a wedding to prepare!"

Lady Olenna scoffed at her son and straightened her back. "Are you telling me I'm too old to travel? I had decades to abide with our words. Trust me, I've grown strong enough for so long, it would be a shame if I never used all that prowess." She laughed, then turned serious again all of a sudden. "And besides, the wedding requires more than flower arrangements. Where do you think the delicacies we'll serve will come from?"

"Such matters are best left to the traders," Lord Tyrell tried again and was immediately cut off.

"The way you do?" She sneered. "I'd rather take a look for myself. And maybe I'm tired of swaying corn fields and roses whenever I set foot outside the gate. A change of scenery has never done any harm. It broadens horizons to travel and see new faces." She threw a glance to the carriage and the group waiting for her to finish the conversation. "And I don't expect a man to understand it," Lady Olenna continued. "But Margaery and I are women of exalted taste. Dorne sees many visitors from the Free Cities. Merchants who bring new, exciting designs. This is your only daughter's wedding. She needs a gown and jewelry appropriate for the occasion."

Lord Mace Tyrell took a deep breath. "Why can't you buy those things in Lannisport or King's Landing? There are renowned tailors and jewelers there."

"Lannisport!" Lady Olenna huffed in disbelief, almost seeming offended. "Adorn my marvelous self with lion gold? That'll be the day you know my mind starts slipping away." She decidedly shook her head and turned to the waiting party. "And don't tell me to buy Northern silver instead. If I said I'll travel to White Harbor, I'd only be met with the same resistance." She waved her handmaidens over, motioning them they would depart any moment. "'The North is too far', 'the North doesn't matter'," Olenna mocked her son. "Dorne is right at our border and I'm sure Margaery and I will find what we truly want there." With that, she strode away, leaving Lord Tyrell standing on the bridge, a dumbfounded and defeated look on his face.

"We are ready then," Olenna addressed nobody in particular when she joined the party. "I can't wait to see dry deserts instead of all those dreadful, dull roses."

 

﴾ _____________________________________________________________________________________ ﴿

 

Unlike the last time they had been to Oldtown, the city didn't welcome the visitors with rain. The sky was blue and sunny, scattered with puffy clouds that foretold good winds. The Whispering Lady wasn't anchored on a hidden cargo dock either, she waited in a prominent spot of the harbor. Her captain, a Dornishman by the name of Alassyo Roquard, defied the image the title of 'sea captain' usually summoned. He was tall, slender and clean-shaven, resembling a refined trader more than a burly, old sea dog. He welcomed the passengers and showed them the facilities of his ship.

The Whispering Lady had more cabins than the Golden Harvest and there were even two larger rooms meant for guards and servants that were not shared with the ship's crew. The Queen of Thorns didn't do things by halves and had booked all the cabins, resulting in her party having the ship to themselves. This included a common room reserved for passengers, state of the art with lavish sofas and fine carpets, a separate dining room and even a bath with a marble basin and tall mirrors. At first, Leiff was puzzled when he carried the luggage into Beric's cabin. There were only two beds, though they were as luxurious as in a castle, and one of them had been claimed by Thoros. Not long after, the confusion faded and made room for doubtful awe when he realized he'd share a cabin of the same size with Iagan. “Why can't Dorne be farther away than five or six days?” he had asked, saying out loud what Beric's expression conveyed since they had boarded the ship.

 

Nobody was going to complain about the accommodations or question their host's generosity, though one mystery relating to the journey remained. Beric had inquired why Renly had invited him and Thoros along. The message waiting for them in King's Landing hadn't mentioned a reason and since Renly was already on his way to Highgarden, Beric hadn't had a chance to ask before getting there. He certainly wasn't opposed to the plans, on the contrary. There was a hunting bazaar just outside Sunspear's Shadow City that Lord Ulric frequently visited and Beric wanted to see for himself. However, he couldn't recall telling Renly about it which made it an unlikely reason for the request of accompanying him and the Tyrells to Dorne. Renly had been vague with his answer, saying the uproar caused by his wedding plans simply put him in the mood for a getaway with his most trusted friends.

As friendly and innocuous as it sounded, the way it was phrased made Thoros uneasy. Against the backdrop of the storm approaching King's Landing, it was a bit suspect that Renly just happened to be in the mood for a luxurious journey with friends he had in common with his furious brother. But what point was there in spoiling the journey for Beric with uncertain suspicions? Since he had a heart to heart talk with Leiff before leaving for Oldtown, they were both in high spirits and for now, the dark clouds of the Baratheon feud were far away. Renly was testing the waters, that suggested itself, but as long as his attempts at swaying Beric to his side resulted in such smooth sailing, Thoros saw no reason for stepping in.

 

﴾ _____________________________________________________________________________________ ﴿

 

The Summer Sea glimmered in the bright beams of the midday sun when Thoros found Beric on deck, leaning on the rail and watching the waves with a wistful expression. The black coat had been thrown over a barrel behind him, the sword leaned against it and propped up a bottle of ale. Thoros had come to ask if Beric would join their host in the common room; Lady Olenna had strawberry cakes served along with chilled wine. But seeing him stare at the sea, lost in thought, made Thoros hesitate in his approach.

Somehow, it seemed like Beric belonged there, with the wind tugging the sleeves of his shirt and his hair. It was more than just appreciation for the serene sea and the refreshment the breeze provided. He was at peace with himself and his surroundings, in a deeper and more profound way than Thoros had ever sensed in him before. Beric hadn't requested to be left alone, yet in this moment it struck Thoros as rude to disturb him. He was about to leave without relaying the message of cakes and wine waiting under deck, but just before he set foot on the stairs to the common room, Beric turned around on his own. “Another call to indulgence?” he asked, a distant smile on his lips. Thoros nodded and waited for an answer, though he had a hunch what Beric would say.

 

Since the Whispering Lady had left the port of Oldtown, the journey had turned into a sugary spree. Lady Olenna claimed the constant servings of luscious cakes, candied fruit and red wines were meant to narrow down the selection for the wedding. However, she rarely removed any items from her list and Thoros suspected she simply had a bit of a sweet tooth. Renly and Margaery enjoyed the array of desserts, perhaps even more so than the handmaidens Lady Olenna quizzed about their opinions on the various treats. Loras and Beric, on the other hand, had enough of the sweetness after two days at sea. “I'll come home as fat as Lord Manderly if I keep doing this every day,” Loras had noted earlier, before going back to his cabin and laze with one of the captain's books about great sea battles. He had been quiet and withdrawn since they had left Highgarden and maybe that was why his grandmother let him go unchallenged. Renly and Margaery were more pleasant company than a knight who claimed to hate open water almost as much as a deluge of desserts. Neither was true, Thoros knew that and he suspected Loras' brooding had more to do with the upcoming wedding, but either way, it seemed better to leave him alone.

 

“I take it Leiff answered the call already?” Beric waved Thoros over to join him at the rail, then turned back around to watch the shimmering waves.

“He did,” Thoros told him what he already knew. “Who knew there is that much to learn about the wedding customs of the Seven? One might come to think he just really likes cakes.” He wandered over to Beric, leaned on the rail next to him and caught the glimpse of a smile. It brushed away the feeling of disturbing him in his thoughts, an informal invitation into his world.

“Then I trust he'll graciously eat my cake as well,” Beric gave back, amused and at the same time far away.

For a while neither spoke, but it was not an uncomfortable silence. It was a moment of quiet introspection and harmony, with each other, with the sea, the wind, the distant echoes of shouting from the ship's crew. The longer they stood there and gazed out at the Summer Sea, the more Thoros understood what he was sensing in Beric, where his strange inner peace sprang from. There had been glimpses in the past, but it had only been flickers, too brief and too fleeting to spark the epiphany Thoros now had. What Beric saw wasn't the endless ocean or a distant horizon, what he tasted in the air wasn't the salt of the sea. He didn't feel the heat of the sun on his skin or the wind in his hair. What he felt was an all encompassing sense of freedom; free of expectations and duty, all troubles left behind on the shores.

“You know, I really wish I had brothers,” Beric broke the silence. His voice was poignant, not sad, and that confirmed what Thoros thought. “It's not that I think my father has a bad life,” Beric quickly added, as if he had to apologize for his words. “But it's not the life I imagine when I think of my future. I don't see myself sitting in the Great Hall, holding court as the Lord of Blackhaven. Not that there's anything wrong with it, but what I want are ships to distant shores and open roads that go on forever, not the walls of a castle.”

 _You sound like Robert_ , Thoros realized, clearer than ever, and the thought was too harrowing to say it out loud. What if the witch had mixed up Renly with Robert? Perhaps one Baratheon was like the other to a foreign seer who had never met either of them. Maybe that was her prediction when she said Beric would 'take his place'. Not titles or positions at court, but a life in the chains of duty, their rattling never quite loud enough to silence his impossible, true calling.

“If I was a third son like Renly or Loras, I wouldn't have to trade the life I want for fulfilling my duty,” Beric continued, then paused and quietly laughed to himself.

“What's funny about that?” Thoros asked, momentarily confused about Beric's sudden amusement.

“How things change,” Beric gave back. “I wouldn't have admitted it, but a few years ago I dreaded adventures and feared the unknown. All I wanted in life was certainty. There was so much comfort in the thought of a defined purpose and never having to stray from the path in hopes of finding a place where I truly belong.” He looked over his shoulder, up to the sails filled with wind, then his gaze wandered back to the horizon. “I would never have thought I'd be happy when I'm in no particular place at all.”

“You still have many years of adventures and travels ahead,” Thoros said, trying to soothe his own troubled thoughts. “Maybe you'll develop a taste for a quiet and placid life over time. That, too, might be hard to imagine right now, but who knows? You might be glad having a place to come home to and settle down.”

“Maybe.” Beric shot him a roguish smile, then turned back to the ocean and gazed into the distance once more. “We'll see about that in a few years.”

Thoros stepped back from the rail and freed the ale from its prison between the barrel and Beric's sword. Thanks to the black coat and sheath covering it, the bottle was warm enough to heat mulled wine in it and Thoros just put it back in its spot, then returned to the rail.

“I still don't look forward to Leiff's farewell,” Beric picked up the conversation. “But the thought tastes at least bittersweet since we talked.” He laughed and leaned his head against Thoros'. “And I felt a bit stupid for thinking his departure would mark the end of our friendship. He told me how grateful he is for our time together, for what he learned on our travels, the friends he made and the places he saw. It was silly to think he'd forget the memories I treasure when he actually feels exactly the same.”

 

﴾ _____________________________________________________________________________________ ﴿

 

“I must make a confession.” Beric's smirk suggested he wasn't about to reveal any dark secrets, nor did his comfortable position on the bed look like he'd lose any sleep over sinful thoughts.

“That's too bad,” Thoros gave back and shut the cabin door behind him. “There's no septon on board and I can't absolve a man who prays to the Seven.” He slowly wandered along the wall next to the door, toward a cushion-filled sofa and a large trunk. Beric's eyes followed him, trying to figure out what Thoros was doing, abandoning the open book on the bed.

“I harbor feelings of jealously toward Lady Kareena,” Beric confessed anyway.

Thoros stopped by the sofa, turned around and regarded him with a stern expression. “So do I,” he solemnly said. “As does Lady Olenna. But if the feeling overwhelms even a woman wielding such power, what can we do?”

Beric rolled on his back and furrowed his brow. “It's all her fault,” he noted after a moment, the defiant tone of his voice matching his expression. “Leiff would never have gone to the galley without her permission. And if he hadn't done that, we wouldn't have had the reminder that I'll never find a squire who can cook like that again.”

“We wouldn't have had such a delicious supper either.” Thoros looked up to a thick, wooden column, then his glance slowly wandered along the ceiling to a wall.

“That is true.” Beric regarded the column and wall as well, but still couldn't figure out what Thoros was searching. “What are you doing there anyway?”

“Nothing, nothing.” Thoros shot him an innocent smile, wandered over to the bed and sat down on the edge. “Just found a good spot for my hammock.”

Beric was immediately all ears and rolled back on his stomach, then inched closer. “Hammock, you say? Why didn't you tell me you have one sooner? The captain said we'll be in the harbor tomorrow by noon.”

“I don't have one _yet_.” Thoros chuckled and ran his fingers through Beric's hair. “But I asked the captain why there aren't any on his ship. He said his passengers usually expect the luxury of beds and he found the request rather amusing, especially because I wasn't the first one who asked. Loras and Leiff approached him about the same thing and they got the same answer.”

“And?” Beric's eyes sparkled with expectation.

“Captain Roquard prides himself with leaving no desire unfulfilled on his ship,” Thoros gave back. “His crew will have hammocks ready in our cabins when we sail back to Oldtown.” He laughed at the bright smile on Beric's face. “Maybe I'll buy one for Robert,” he added. “The captain said there are many stores at the harbor selling them, so I should be able to find one that will hold Robert's weight.”

 


	33. Desert Roses

“Not that I visited Sunspear before, but I'm fairly sure there's no river running through it on the maps I have seen,” Beric noted when the ship slowly approached the harbor.

The obvious presence of the murky, green river entering the Summer Sea wasn't the only indication of this being the wrong port. What was also prominently missing were the white towers of Sunspear. There was a fairly large settlement that could have been the Shadow City, but the golden roofs and winding walls of the Old Palace just weren't there. Instead, the mouth of the river was lined with artfully painted rafts, many of them featuring elaborate carvings and poles holding small lanterns. The closest one to the dock was green and almost seamlessly merged with the color of the water, except for yellow seashells decorating the poles. A small crowd was gathered on the bank near the raft, mostly women in long, flowing dresses who carried baskets and seemed to haggle with merchants. No doubt, this was Planky Town with its swimming bazaar and the Orphans of the Greenblood peddling wares from their boats.

“Maybe it's just a stop to take supplies on board?” Thoros joined Beric on the rail facing the harbor. “Though I didn't get the impression we were running low on anything. We'd probably be at Sunspear in the evening and could stock up there. Has to be something urgent if the captain would rather delay the journey.”

 

“It's been too long!” Lady Olenna sounded cheerful when she stepped onto the deck, not like she had expected to be anywhere else. “I haven't seen Lord Vaith in almost two years!”

Beric shot a puzzled glance to her, then leaned closer to Thoros. “Isn't Vaith farther inland? I'm starting to think there's something wrong with my maps.” Their confusion only grew because nobody but Leiff shared it. Their companions were in high spirits and looking forward to set foot on land. Loras alone didn't look excited at all, but he didn't say a word about the wrong destination either.

“We must have misheard it the entire time,” Thoros replied in a hushed tone. They hadn't, of course, everyone had spoken of Sunspear and Renly's invitation had mentioned the castle as well as the Shadow City and its bazaars. Beric had tried to recall if and when he had mentioned the falconer market to Renly on the way to Highgarden and he knew as well as Thoros that there was nothing wrong with his ears. However, the Queen of Thorns had no complaints about being in Planky Town and if she found no fault with the situation, it would be best to just play along.

 

While they waited on the dock for the horses and luggage to be unloaded, the arrival of a carriage brought at least some clarity. It had been sent by Lord Vaith and bore his banner, but it was not Daeron Vaith, Lord of the Red Dunes. The welcoming party belonged to his younger brother, Lord Tibean Vaith, who resided in a luxurious retreat on the coast and handled the affairs of the trading fleet sailing under the flag of his house. Him being the host made things seem less strange, as Lady Olenna had talked about trade agreements and imports from the Free Cities. The younger Lord Vaith, as Renly pointed out on the way, was not only married to a noblewoman from Lys, he also had excellent trade contacts reaching as far as Volantis. If Lady Olenna was looking for luxuries of exotic design and origin, Lord Tibean Vaith was the man who could provide them.

 

﴾ _____________________________________________________________________________________ ﴿

 

The breathtaking sight of Lord Vaith's estate brushed away the confusion and doubt of the noon. The whitewashed limestone building sat atop of a rocky hill, overlooking a bay with a small shipwright's dock, a hillside vineyard and the shimmering Summer Sea to the South. In the afternoon sunlight, the white structure looked like a golden glow emanated from the sprawling terraces and elegant stairs and archways, with the blue-painted roofs of the towers marking the sky of this private world. It seemed as if a king had stopped to take in the view for a moment, decided on a whim to stay a while longer and when he woke up from his daydreams, a palace stood here. There was an aura of tranquility and lightness in the air, making it easy to imagine this residence was built by absentmindedly stacking one stone on another without noticing it.

The secluded estate was a two hours ride away from the busy alleys of Planky Town and the banks of the Greenblood river, but the coastal road leading here was well maintained. _Maybe that's why we didn't anchor at Sunspear_ , Thoros had thought to himself on the way. The road might just be rockier or in a state of disrepair farther North, a recent development that the Tyrells had not known about. The captain would have been aware of it though and to him, it would have been a matter of pride to not inconvenience his passengers. He'd have arranged for transport from the other direction and informed Lady Olenna without making it a matter of great importance. If she didn't object to the slight change of plans, it was an easy thing to forget when talking to passengers, was it not?

 

﴾ _____________________________________________________________________________________ ﴿

 

Such thoughts were entirely forgotten when the party entered the building and their hosts greeted them in the impressive entrance hall. Their steps echoed under the high ceiling and on the white marble tiles of the floor, between seemingly sky-high columns with delicate carvings and playful fountains dabbling under potted palm trees. Tapestries and paintings underlined Lord Vaith's strong ties to the Free Cities, as many showed motives from Lys, Tyrosh and Myr.

Lady Olenna made introductions, starting with Lord Vaith whose ornate, orange robes stood out against the calm white of the hall, then she presented Lady Irena of Lys to her companions. Though Lord Vaith had preserved a certain boyish charm well into his forties, it was hard to believe his wife was the same age. The fair skin and ash-blonde, flowing hair stood in stark contrast to his dark, Dornish looks, but Lady Irena could have effortlessly passed as his daughter due to her youthful appearance.

Thoros would have appreciated the sight of such a woman more if there hadn't been that subtle reminder that something about this journey was not as it seemed. Maybe Lady Olenna was merely aware of the complicated history between Lys and Myr when she emphasized that Beric and Thoros were 'friends of the family', but that seemed a bit far-fetched in his mind. Both Thoros and Lady Irena had lived in Westeros for over a decade by now and had left the conflicts between their cities far behind. It was probably nothing, Thoros finally decided. Lady Olenna was simply in high spirits and felt as if her grandson's friends were her friends as well.

 

The introduction of Lady Satal, Lord Vaith's actual daughter, marked the moment when Loras' and Renly's disinterest in women drifted to the forefront of Beric's mind for the first time. Until now, he had never given it much thought, if any at all. During tourneys, Loras had always lived up to his nickname as 'Knight of Flowers', handed roses to admirers in the audience, but kept a polite distance during the feasts. Renly, on the other hand, was so convincing when he feigned interest in women, it sometimes even fooled Beric for a short while. When Renly had left with Loras instead of the lady he had danced with after his last name day celebration, it had amused Beric just how anew the surprise at it had felt. But here, far away from home, neither Renly nor Loras saw a need for facades.

Lady Satal was the spitting image of her beautiful mother, except for the mane of dark, curly hair. Her father's Rhoynish ancestry mixed with the blood of Old Valyria that still ran in Lyseni veins, giving her piercing, bright eyes the color of honey and smooth, amber skin. Despite her stunning looks and charming smile, Loras showed absolutely no enthusiasm when they were introduced. Apparently he'd just met her for the first time, but everything about his demeanor said he could have done without ever making her acquaintance and not missed a thing. In a way, Beric envied the aloofness Loras maintained with such ease. As much as his preference complicated his life, in this situation it sure had its advantage. It cost Loras no effort at all not letting his gaze wander, a task made more difficult by Lady Satal's revealing, light dress. Beric had to work a bit harder for his restraint, but he resisted the temptation and kept his eyes away from improper places below her neck.

The formal part of the introductions ended there, as Renly seemed well-acquainted with Lord Vaith and his wife and daughter. When he greeted Lady Satal, though courteous as usual, it certainly didn't look like a red-blooded man was speaking to a gorgeous, young woman nor did it seem like they were close friends. Their brief exchange more resembled two estranged siblings making indifferent small talk after some time apart. At first, Beric blamed it on Margaery's presence and the recent betrothal. Perhaps Renly had simply gotten used to the pretense they kept up in public or he practiced his act as a loyal husband. But that theory quickly fell apart when it was the bride-to-be's turn. Both Margaery and Satal broke out in beaming smiles when they embraced and there were certainly more kisses to their cheeks than was common for friends. Renly's unusually stilted manners came not from a lack of sympathy, he simply kept a distance from territory his future wife claimed as hers.

 

And suddenly things made a lot more sense to Thoros. The journey to Dorne served more than just business purposes of the Queen of Thorns. The princess had a more personal reason for the visit, that was obvious now, and her grandmother was nothing if not a practical woman. Thoros knew the marriage to Renly had been Margaery's idea and it had slightly puzzled him why. Of course, Margaery was ambitious and the crown sat on the head of Renly's brother, but playing a lifelong act with her brother's lover seemed like a big sacrifice regardless of goals. Even if Margaery was willing to make it, her grandmother's approval had been a mystery all the same. Lady Olenna ruled the Reach with an iron fist spiked with thorns, but it was also no secret that she deeply cared for her kin. She'd have advised against such an arrangement, unless she had reason to believe her favorite grandchild would truly be happy with it in the long run. Having a lover she couldn't wed herself was such a reason and marrying a man in the same situation made it a perfect storm.

When Thoros covertly looked around in the hall, he noticed that not a single person found the exuberant greeting of the young ladies noteworthy. In fact, barely anyone paid attention to it at all. Lord Vaith casually complimented Loras on recent victories, Olenna and Renly admired a tapestry showing various spices while Lady Irena explained what exactly each plant was. Beric tried to follow the conversation between Lord Vaith and Loras, but from the corner of his eye he stole glances at Margaery and her apparent lover chatting a few steps away. Thoros couldn't tell by his expression if he was trying to make sense of what he saw or if it made too much sense and Beric was engaged in an inner struggle against sinful thoughts.

“Shall we retire to the orangery?” Lord Vaith finally ended the extended welcome. “You must be thirsty after the long ride in the heat and the wine won't stay chilled forever.”

 

﴾ _____________________________________________________________________________________ ﴿

 

Life seemed elegant and easy in a place like Lord Vaith's retreat and Beric was in a good mood when he crossed through the luxuriant entrance hall. The evening brought a fresh breeze from the Summer Sea to the layered terraces leading up from the shore to the orangery, a welcome change from the heat of the day. The cool wind wafted through the wide open doors of the artful conservatory, a colorful yet serene testament to Dorne's excellent glassmakers and artisans, carrying the scents of oranges, lemons, and limes.

Thoros, Renly and Lady Olenna were somewhere above, on one of the projecting balconies of Lord Vaith's solar. Before Beric had left in search of Loras, they had long finished formal discussions regarding trade and moved on to the more casual topic of wine. It had become crystal-clear that Lady Olenna never had plans to renegotiate old agreements, as this particular subject barely came up. Neither Thoros nor Beric considered himself an expert in matters of business, but they still understand the more than obvious offers Lady Olenna laid out to their host. Instead of haggling over new terms and comparing sources, she suggested directing nearly all of Highgarden's oversea dealings to Lord Vaith. In turn, he accepted the proposals without much consideration, as if he had expected nothing else and was well-prepared.

Margaery and Satal had left right after supper for a walk through the vineyards, as they said. Though everyone at the table had been in on their secret, there were matters the ladies rather didn't bring up in public after being apart for several months. Beric hadn't seen them since they left the table, though Lord Vaith had been informed of their return to the residence a while ago. They had probably retired to Satal's chambers by now or continued their conversation on a balcony facing the other direction; Beric hadn't given it too much thought. The question whether this newly revealed secret made the upcoming wedding better or worse had no satisfactory answer and he rather sought less complicated ways of passing the time.

The only one truly missing from the gathering upstairs without reason was Loras, but Beric had a hunch where he was hiding in the maze of Lord Vaith's sprawling estate. When he stepped outside through the doors of the orangery he found him, in the place Beric would have chosen, had his mood been as gloomy as Loras' all day.

 

Loras sat on a wide balustrade of the uppermost terrace, leaning back against the white limestone wall. The potted lemon trees and big-leafed plants from Essos cast long shadows at this hour, painting a bizarre, irregular pattern on the large tiles of the floors. It was quiet out here, quiet enough to hear someone approaching, but Loras kept glaring to the dusky horizon and the sea.

“Let me guess, you're less fond of long journeys than you always thought you would be.” Beric closed the distance between them and sat down next to Loras on the stone balustrade.

“It's not exactly Pyke, is it?” Loras' voice carried resignation and his gaze remained lost in the distance as he spoke.

“I didn't chose the Iron Islands as my first destination either,” Beric gave back, hoping to cheer him up, and was promptly cut off.

“No, first you went to the Wall.” Loras scoffed, brushed a strand of hair out of his face and shot a reproachful glance at Beric. “My mistake, confusing one remote, adventurous place for another.”

“Dorne isn't so bad,” Beric tried again. “And at least your father let you go, even though the king's name day tourney will take place soon. Maybe he realized your training doesn't suffer when he loosens the reins and he'll be fine with you traveling more in the future.” Loras didn't react and kept staring down the evening sky above the ocean. “Thoros and I will ride for Sunspear tomorrow,” Beric added. “I was looking for you to ask if you'll join us. It's still not Pyke, but there...”

“Don't you get it?” Loras' head spun around and now he looked angry. “I'm not here for indulgence. My father didn't 'allow' me to go, he ordered me here.” He took a deep breath and turned away from Beric. “He wanted me to join the Kingsguard, but it appears that door has fallen shut now. So the plans for my future have changed,” he then explained, more composed. “I'm here to get acquainted with my future wife, Lady Satal.”

Beric stared at him for a moment, struggling for words that would do justice to his bafflement and not finding any. “That is quite a change of plans indeed,” he finally got out.

Loras nodded and produced a humorless chuckle. “I'd rather join the Kingsguard,” he said, more to himself. “I'm used to wearing the mask of perfect knighthood. A white cloak would comfortably cover up my 'sinful indiscretions' and I could leave the pretending to others.”

Beric still didn't know what to say and silence fell over the nightly terrace once more. “What does your sister think of it?” he asked after a while. “And Lady Satal, for that matter?”

“It was their idea,” Loras gave back. “That's the one silver lining on my bleak horizon. My grandmother sees the potential, but she wouldn't be who she is if she rushed into it without careful consideration. I am to court Lady Satal for a year or two, create the public illusion of a young love growing strong before we'll announce our betrothal. Of course, it will only come to that if my grandmother's trade agreements with Lord Vaith pan out to her satisfaction in that time.”

“I see,” Beric quietly replied. “She wants to make sure the spices and ships measure up in value to her grandson.”

Now Loras laughed, dryly, but it sounded like he genuinely found that notion amusing. “Aye, that's a blunt way of putting it, but it's true. If House Vaith has enough ships, I'll be traded for them and the title of 'most desirable bachelor of the realms' will be yours.” He chuckled at Beric's doubtful glance, then his gaze drifted back into the distance. “You know what Margaery said?” he absently asked after a brief silence. “She told me it won't be so bad to marry Lady Satal because we have 'so much' in common. 'She won't mind you being with Renly at all!' she said. It was both the first and the last point on her list.” He laughed to himself and shook his head. “What a wonderful thing it is to share with a spouse, a mutual disinterest in one another. Can you imagine how happy we will be? Our marriage will be a tower of strength, standing on a foundation of indifference and lies.”

“Maybe it really won't be so bad,” Beric said. Not that he liked the elaborate deception Loras had laid out. But he also disliked seeing his friend in such low spirits and it couldn't hurt trying to put a more uplifting spin on the situation. “A wife who 'doesn't mind you being with Renly' conceals the truth as much as a white cloak. And your grandmother biding her time with the betrothal works to your advantage as well. She's a stranger now, but there'll be a year or two for discovering common ground and getting to know one another. When the time comes, you might marry a friend you truly trust.”

 

Loras sat up straight and appraisingly regarded Beric for a while. “I hadn't thought about it that way,” he said, sounding somewhat surprised at the insight. “Renly compared it to the arrangement he has with Margaery, but it didn't look like that to me when I was told about it. They've known each other for years and hatched their plan together, I was informed I'd wed a stranger if her father had enough ships. But you're right. It could all be much worse. If nothing else, I know I won't be expected to fuck her.” He laughed with relief and inched closer, hugged Beric and put a kiss on his cheek. “Maybe that's why Renly invited you here, to see how you react to all this and if you can be trusted. You wouldn't be the worst choice if someone is needed to produce an heir for me one day, after all.”

Beric's head spun around and he stared wide-eyed at Loras and his reckless smile. “Produce an heir for you?” Beric echoed, fairly certain he had not heard that right, not right at all.

“You look close enough to me and my brother.” Loras ruffled Beric's hair, then twirled a strand of his own between his fingers to compare. “After a year or two of Dornish sun my hair might even be just as golden. You can perform with a woman, can't you?” Taken aback by the blunt question, Beric just kept staring, his mind entirely void of words. Loras chuckled at the dumbfounded expression and it was all the answer he seemed to expect. “Haven't tried it either,” he said with a shrug. “But I suspect you're less opposed to finding out than me, judging by the way you looked at Lady Satal.”

“You can't be serious about this,” Beric finally blurted out. Surely his attempt at cheering Loras up had worked _too_ well and this was just an outrageous joke that went a little too far for his comfort.

“Why wouldn't I be serious?” Loras smirked and flipped the wayward curls back over his shoulder. “Because I'm asking you to sleep with my sister's lover once I'm married to her, since I myself prefer sinful indiscretions with the king's brother, and then pass off the resulting child as my own flesh and blood?” He burst out in laughter at Beric's face; summing up the outlandish proposal like that certainly didn't help him regain his composure. “But that's how House Tyrell plays the game now,” Loras gasped, still laughing. “That's why we're here!”

“What do you mean by that, that's why we're here?” Beric inquired, though he was fairly certain by now that he might sleep easier without knowing the answer.

“Oh, not you.” Loras pulled Beric closer and put a kiss on his temple. “You are here because Renly values you very much as a friend. Just as much as he values you as the heir of Blackhaven. Recently, it appears he's especially fond of your home's location, right at the Boneway, the passage to Dorne. Good place to stay on the way from Storm's End or Highgarden to Vaith, he says.”

Puzzled, Beric regarded him from the side. “I value Renly's friendship as well,” he slowly gave back. “And he's always welcome to stay at Blackhaven. But I wasn't aware hospitality is a game to be played and I still don't see how it relates to us being here.”

The smile left Loras' lips and he sighed before he answered in a resigned, serious tone. “They don't trust you _that_ much yet, do they?” He paused and took a deep breath. “Well, I do. We're here because my father agreed to Margaery's wedding to Renly under one condition. He said he will not watch his only daughter wither away with a man who won't give her a child. Margaery wants children as well, and Renly tried to oblige. But it became abundantly clear that it isn't going to happen the natural way, so my grandmother suggested seeking help from the Orphans of the Greenblood.”

Beric nodded, relieved it all began making sense. The Orphans were known for their mastery of healing arts, their knowledge was said to surpass even that of experienced maesters. Claiming a different destination on the way had been just a distraction for the ship's crew, preventing rumors about the delicate reason for visiting Planky Town by making them think the passengers would continue to Sunspear by horse.

“She assured my father that Margaery would return from Dorne with a child in her belly,” Loras went on. “And since my grandmother isn't known for empty promises, it was good enough for him and he agreed to the marriage.” He got up from the balustrade and made a few steps toward the door to the orangery. “Of course, it's a long journey to make for a vaguely phrased promise,” he thoughtfully added. “And so far away from home, in a distant desert, even famed roses are just strangers in a strange land.” When he had reached the door, he paused and turned back to Beric as if he just had an epiphany. “Funny, in the Reach, Renly stands out with his dark hair, but here he's the one who fits in. A few days in the sun to darken his skin and most people would think he has Rhoynish blood.”

It took Beric a moment, but then the realization of Loras' insinuation hit him like a rock. “You _were_ serious?” he managed to say. “Are you implying your sister is here to...”

“I'm not implying anything,” Loras cut him off with a blithe smile. “No lady has ever been as loyal as my sister is to her betrothed.” He went into the orangery, stopped next to a lemon tree and absently inspected a nearby fruit. “I'm glad we talked,” he said when Beric didn't answer and silently gazed out to the sea. “Your words helped me making some peace with the fate I'm unlikely to escape. If I may give you some advice in return...” Now Beric looked to him and undecidedly shrugged. “Find a wife like my sister,” Loras continued and nodded to the distant horizon. “She'll gladly take care of your duties at home while you're out there seeking your own happiness.”

 

﴾ _____________________________________________________________________________________ ﴿

 

It was still early when Thoros opened the door to Beric's chambers. The light of the Eastern sun flooded the room, almost dazzlingly bright against the white walls. To his own surprise, Thoros wasn't surprised to find Beric was awake despite the early hour. He was still on the bed, back turned to the door, facing the large, arched window toward the sea. There was no movement, no reaction to the sound of the door being opened, but he had apparently been up at some point before to get somewhat dressed. The black pants he wore stood out like an island against the brightness, his shirt was open and merged with the flood of white in the room. His boots lay on the floor by the fireplace, behind him sat his cyvasse board, some pieces set up for a game, others scattered around it. It looked as if Beric had just abandoned the intention of looking proper mid-thought and went back to the bed in search of a more promising idea.

Thoros shut the door and went closer, and there was still no reaction when he sat down on the bed. Beric wasn't ignoring him, Thoros knew that by now. He merely saw no need to acknowledge his presence with words or actions, just like he didn't need to assure the light or the air that he had noticed it. Thoros briefly studied the cyvasse board; the pieces weren't scattered as randomly as it had seemed. It was a game Beric had played against himself and by the looks of it the outcome was a tie. A white catapult and a heavy horse had the black king cornered behind a mountain, while the white king was trapped by the black dragon and two spearmen. There was no way out, the next move would mean defeat for either side and there was no telling whose turn it was.

Carefully, Thoros pushed the board aside, toward the pillows, in case Beric wanted to make that last move later, though it didn't look like he would. Sitting behind him now, Thoros' gaze followed Beric's to the window, to the glowing sky in the East, to the sun rising above the Summer Sea. Right here and right now, this moment felt perfect, as if there was nothing missing, nothing at all. But the tranquility of the morning was deceptive. Something lingered in the warm air, something neither of them could put into words. This moment in its almost-perfection was just the calm before a storm brewing behind a serene facade.

 

Thoros' hand absently wandered to Beric's head, ran his fingers through the golden hair, brushed dark clouds he didn't quite understand yet away from daydreams and distractions. In quiet moments like this, Beric's fire burned brighter and Thoros wondered if that inner light was why they were drawn to each other like moths to a flame. When they had first met, he hadn't given much thought to this feeling, if he had even been conscious of it at all. It had been easy to mistake it for nothing but habit; picking up a fledgling that had fallen from its nest came naturally to a kind heart, no matter how drunk. Beric had been young, afraid of the world and in need of some guidance; it never seemed unusual that he became quickly attached. For a time, Thoros had thought the reason was that simple, that it all began with Beric's novel discovery of getting the closeness and affection he was missing in a world of stoic strength from his new friend. Then it had just become a habit, as many things did, a steady source of comfort like a river always carried water and nobody thought too much about it. But maybe he, too, had felt something deeper without knowing it.

Ever since the weirwood had wept in the swamps of Hag's Mire, Thoros saw things in a different, more vivid light. This radiance wasn't just the shroud of hopeful dreams shining brighter when Beric tasted a kind of freedom he would never have. It wasn't just him forgetting obligations and duty and allowing himself to imagine what it would be like to follow the call of adventure to the end of the world. When Thoros looked at him in such moments, far away in his thoughts, he knew there was more to it, much more. As strange and unsettling as the conversation with the witch had been, maybe she had opened Thoros' eyes and forced him to look in the right direction. Maybe this truly was his god commanding him to guard this flame and keep it safe through the storms to come.

Still gazing to the distant horizon, Thoros hadn't realized he was stroking Beric's hair, though he wasn't surprised at it either when he woke from his contemplation. Beric looked more content now, not as solemn and pensive as before, though he still didn't react. He knew Thoros sensed there were troubled thoughts in his apparent placidity, the calm was not an attempt at hiding his unease. Staying still under the touch was acknowledging them; allowing a profound, unknowable pain to drift to the surface and confronting it there. They were flames in such moments and flames didn't hurt one another when touching. They flared hotter and brighter, became stronger and finally merged into one. It had taken Thoros a long time to understand that this was how Beric felt when they were close. It wasn't a habit, a joke, a way of strengthening the bond between friends. He found some measure of peace in this closeness, enough to burn away an ache only the caress of fire could soothe.

 

“You know, I've been thinking,” Beric broke the silence. He sounded thoughtful, but not as heavy-hearted as expected and Thoros was relieved the shadows had been chased from his mind. “My father traveled to Essos,” Beric continued, still gazing out to the sky. “Maybe we could go there as well for a while. We've seen so much of the Seven Kingdoms and I know so little of Myr. You could show me the city and introduce me to old friends in the temple where you grew up. Lord Vaith might let us book passage on one of his trade ships and...”

“Hold your horses, your lordship.” Thoros laughed and leaned over Beric to discover a roguish smile on his lips. “We can't just run off to the Free Cities because you had a chat over supper with a man who owns ships.”

“Why not?” Beric rolled on his back and looked up to Thoros. “It's not _that_ far from Blackhaven, if you think about it. Should I really be needed at home, a message would easily reach me in Essos and I'd be back there within weeks.”

“It may not conflict with your duties, but it's not so simple when it comes to mine,” Thoros replied, not sure if Beric was serious about his plans or just gave voice to a daydream. “The High Priest might be senile and ancient, but he remembers sending me on a mission all too well. It's easy enough to feign progress while I'm on the other shore of the Narrow Sea. There are barely any followers of R'hllor here, nobody keeping an eye on my ongoing 'conversion' of kings. All it takes is a letter from Robert once a year, inquiring about the deeper meaning of made-up visions or if certain events are signs sent by the Red God.” He paused and thought for a moment, then continued in a more earnest tone. “He says it amuses him writing these letters, but he's aware they are the reason I'm not being called back. I'm rather fond of my cozy life in Westeros and the generous stipend from the temple. The High Priest would certainly realize I'm not trying to convert anyone if I came back just to show friends the city.”

Beric regarded him for a while, thinking about what he had heard, though the answer hadn't diminished his good mood. “Now I feel bad for plotting to steal you away from King Robert,” he said, his voice sounding playful rather than filled with regret. “But not bad enough to abandon the quest altogether.” Thoros chuckled, but he was too slow with an answer. Beric sat up and left the white void of the bed toward the window, barefoot making his way cross the sun-warmed stone floor.

Thoros got up and followed the few steps, then wrapped his arms around Beric from behind. “We can visit Braavos or Pentos some day,” he quietly said near Beric's ear. “But today, we'll ride to Sunspear, unless you changed your mind about it.” He got an absent nod instead of an answer and sighed to himself; sometimes Beric was hopeless and this was such a time. “The sea will still be there when we get back,” Thoros noted and tried to pull him away from the call he heard beyond the fiery horizon. But it was futile, like throwing his arms around light to drag the beams away from the sun. Beric's heart was out there, over the wide, open water, and that's where it would always be. Thoros put a kiss on the back of Beric's head and let go, then went back through the whiteness to the room's door. “I'll wait downstairs,” he said. “Maybe I can fill the saddlebags with Lord Vaith's sweet dessert wine for the way.”

To his surprise, that woke Beric from his brief trance. He turned away from the window and looked around for his boots. “It is sweet indeed,” he noted and it sounded like he gave the fact some serious thought. “I always thought all Dornish wines would taste stronger and more sour than this.”

“Most do,” Thoros replied, somewhat puzzled about the sudden change of topic and tone. “But I guess if one trades in spices, some find their way into his private stock of wine.”

“You prefer it to other Dornish wines?” Beric picked up his boots and sat down on the bed to put them on. “You like sweet ones, I know that, but this one isn't as strong as others. Does that sway your judgement away from the taste?”

“What is this, an interrogation?” Thoros laughed and leaned against the wall next to the door. “There's a time and place for each wine in my expert opinion. A hot and dry place like Dorne calls for a wine less strong than usual, so I chose the sweet one while we're here.” He waited if another question would come, but Beric just smiled to himself, then fished for his coat next to the bed, found it on the floor and put it on.

“I'll keep that in mind.” He got up, the innocent smile still on his lips, and came over to Thoros to open the door. “Let's see what Sunspear has to offer then,” he said and stepped out on the hallway, leaving the cyvasse board behind without making that one final, fatal move.

 


	34. Shadow Play

The last hints of cool night air still lingered in the shadow Lord Vaith's retreat cast on the cobblestone path. Beric sat on a bench framed by orange trees and watched the road while waiting for Leiff to ready the horses and for Thoros to gather the sweet Dornish wine. His eyes followed a cart loaded with crates and barrels and pulled by two tired donkeys, humble merchants perhaps, taking their produce to Planky Town's market.

“How do I look?”

The cheerful voice calling out from the building startled Beric at the early hour and he jumped up out of sheer habit, only realizing he was in the presence of a lady when he was on his feet. Margaery spun around when she had his attention, presenting a rather unusual attire and Beric was stumped for an answer. This dress had nothing in common with Highgarden's elegant fashion, it wasn't even something daughters of less wealthy houses would own. Compared to the gowns he had seen Margaery wear in the past, these clothes were modest and prudish, and didn't even fit all that well. The long skirt had the color of dun and was so long it dragged on the ground, the sleeves of the wide, greenish blouse were hitched up to hide that they were likely too long. Over it, Margaery wore an apron, something commonly seen on workers doing manual labor, not the daughter of a Great House. Her hair matched the strange choice of clothes, it was pinned up in an unflattering fashion, with practicality rather than style in mind.

“Unfamiliar?” Beric tried to phrase his thoughts politely. He couldn't bring himself to be more blunt; 'you look like a tavern wench on the way to help out a farmer' wasn't something a knight should ever say to a lady.

Margaery playfully pouted and performed one more swirl. “Be honest!” She smiled brightly and pretended dusting down her old apron, though there wasn't a grain of dirt staining it. “If you didn't know me, who would you think I am?”

 _A tavern wench on the way to help out a farmer_ , Beric's inner voice promptly replied, but Beric stayed silent and struggled for words. “An actress, perhaps?” he cautiously guessed after a moment of consideration. “Though I don't know many plays, I couldn't say which character you might resemble...”

“Oh, leave the poor boy alone.” Lady Olenna sounded amused and Beric was glad she came to his rescue, but then he saw her step out of the door and was dumbfounded again. The Queen of Thorns didn't look royal either; the grey, sagging gown reminded him of a septa and though the loose-knit shawl around her shoulders alleviated that first impression, it certainly didn't make the overall picture any better. In addition to this she held a cane, barely more than a gnarly branch cut into shape, which she used to hobble closer with a feigned limp. “He's not your brother,” she added when she stopped in front of Beric, smiled and pinched his cheek with her free hand. “Lord Beric retains his good manners when nobody is looking. He's not going to say that you look like you'd do indecent things for some money.”

“Grandmother!” Margaery gasped, half surprised and half amused by the notion. “I was aiming for 'poor farmer's daughter'! I can't possibly wear anything more demure in this scorching sun!”

Lady Olenna answered with a dismissive wave of her hand. “The more prim and proper they dress the wilder they are, every man knows that,” she dryly commented, then slowly continued her way down the path. “Believe me, my dear, I was once young, prim and proper myself.” Beric's bewildered glare followed her and found another surprise by the gate. The cart hadn't passed by on the road to Planky Town. It had taken a turn and now stood on the path to Lord Vaith's residence, waiting near the gate in the shadow of a lemon tree grove. “Now come.” Olenna stopped again and waited for Margaery, then she appraisingly looked at Beric. “We shouldn't make the septas wait for us. It's such a delightful and rare chance they grant us. At home, we'd be recognized in an instant, but it can be so insightful speaking with the common people as strangers.”

The furtive tone Beric picked up in her voice told him the ladies Tyrell were not going to visit a sept, but he nodded as if he believed this explanation for their strange appearance. “I admire your dedication to charitable pursuits,” he politely replied, having a hard time hiding the realization dawning on him. “Not many take the time to listen to the common people and find out what they truly want or need.”

“A shame, isn't it?” Lady Olenna adjusted her shawl, then continued hobbling down the path. Again, Beric vaguely nodded, though Olenna had turned away, not needing or expecting an answer from him.

“I hope you enjoy Sunspear!” Margaery called when both women sat between the barrels and crates and the cart began moving back to the road.

 

 _I will_ , Beric thought as he watched the cart leave. _If nothing else, Sunspear is far enough away to not get caught up more in the secretiveness and deception going on here._ He was about to return to the bench, but then he heard the sound of hooves on cobblestone from the other direction and turned around. The stables were a short walk down the path near the winery and the grape pickers' quarters, both Leiff and Thoros had gone there not long ago with the guards. They returned with one more man than they had left with, however, and the horses they had brought with them were not theirs.

These animals were smaller than the horses knights rode to battle, with lean, elegant bodies, long necks and narrow heads. Dornish Sand Steeds, no doubt, Beric had seen these noble beasts on rare occasions, when travelers from Dorne stayed at Blackhaven on their way north. “Beautiful to look at, but they won't do you no good,” Anguy had commented, much less impressed. “They breed them for speed and endurance, not strength. You might be the first man arriving for a tourney, but they can't carry the weight of your armor and would break down under it even before the first round.” But in the dry, Dornish heat, only a fool would wear armor, a fool with a death wish who had chosen thirst as the means of ending his life at that. Here, the Sand Steeds excelled at what they were bred for. They were said to run for a day, a night and another day after that without tiring. Even if it was only half true, it was more than enough for the way to Sunspear and back.

“I spoke to Lord Vaith last night,” Renly said when he reached Beric who was still slightly puzzled about seeing him here. “When he heard we'll ride for Sunspear today, he offered to lend us his horses right away.” He made it sound as if that had been the plan all along, though Beric and Thoros had expected he'd have own matters to take care of, as nobody else they had traveled with seemed to be here without a specific reason. “Such generosity makes me think he's rather pleased with the match House Tyrell offered for Lady Satal.”

“You are coming with us?” Beric bluntly asked and it came out a bit more skeptical than intended.

“Of course.” Renly gestured for the reins of a golden-brown Sand Steed, as if to prove his answer was more than empty words. “Did you think I was joking when I said I need some time away from the quarrel with my brother and Lord Tyrell's uncanny talent for puffing up the wedding preparations to new heights?” He swiftly climbed onto the horse, padded the saddlebags and glanced to Thoros. “Some time with friends and good wine is much more appealing. Besides, I'd only get in the way if I stayed here.”

“In the way of what?” Beric stepped closer and inspected the horses, feeling the silvery fur of a grey mare. “I just saw Lady Olenna leave with your betrothed and Loras was still sleeping when I went looking for him.”

Renly didn't seem to mind being interrogated, at least the question didn't diminish his good mood. “Lord Vaith, the other one, our host's elder brother, arrives here tomorrow with his wife and son,” he explained. “There'll be a small harbor festival in Planky Town in a few days, a good chance for them to meet Lady Satal's suitor. My presence would only be a distraction, so I'd rather leave those matters to the Tyrells.” He shot a smile and a wink down to Leiff. “And two grooms-to-be will find better entertainment in a city overflowing with bazaars, merchants and wares from distant shores than in the solitude of a quiet retreat.”

“Can't argue with that,” Thoros added, looking to Beric. “You said you wanted to help Leiff prepare for the wedding anyway.”

Beric laughed and took the reins Leiff offered to him, then turned back to Renly. “You don't need to convince me,” he said. “I'm just surprised there are no pressing matters holding you here.” He mounted the horse, black with a bright-blond, flowing mane. “And I'm glad for all the help I can get when it comes to wedding arrangements.”

 

﴾ _____________________________________________________________________________________ ﴿

 

The heat of the Dornish sun was unbearable outside the luxurious room of the inn Renly had rented. The curtains and wooden shutters of the windows offered little resistance to the dry air and the upcoming noises from outside. Three stories below the windows lay a hidden court that had not been visible or accessible from the alley and it now came alive in the day's fading light. During the day, a lazy silence had shrouded the town and the streets had seemed almost deserted. Many stores and merchant stalls had been abandoned while their owners dwelled in the shadows of taverns and houses, waiting for the blistering heat to retreat in the evening. The deeper the red sun set on the distant horizon, the more Sunspear's Shadow City awoke back to life. Soon, the quaint court below the window would turn into a center of trade. The first merchants set up their booths and colorful tents, preparing for a busy night of peddling spices, fabrics and anything else buyers might desire.

 

Beric's bare foot lightly pushed against the wall, just enough to make the hammock rock back and forth between the two limestone columns. Seeing how deserted the Shadow City was right after their arrival, he was glad he had bought it from the first best vendor they had found. Thoros had considered comparing the wares in different stores and holding out for the sturdiest hammock Dorne had to offer, but he, too, had given in and made the purchase right away. After wandering through hot, narrow alleys for what felt like hours without coming across other options, it seemed unlikely he'd regret this decision any time soon.

Beric's eyes grazed a pair of curved swords, perhaps imports from Essos, mounted on the wall above the untouched bed and a hazy thought began taking shape in his head. Renly had mentioned traders selling exotic weapons like these on the way, saying he couldn't escape the dull martial culture even when he set forth to prepare his own wedding. But for Loras, the opposite might be true. A distraction from weddings was just what he needed; a reminder that Dorne valued skill in battle and there was more here for him than a wife he wouldn't love. A Dornish spear, perhaps, a scimitar or a Myrish stiletto. It would be worth it keeping his eyes open for merchants selling such things, Beric pondered.

“Are you sleeping?” Disbelief merged with amusement in Thoros' voice when he entered the room and found Beric, still in his hammock and lost in deep thought. “Renly and Leiff want to look at the bazaar and it won't be long until it opens.” He nodded to the window Beric absently regarded. “You want me to tell them you're not coming with us?”

“I'll join you,” Beric replied, but made no move to leave his comfortable hammock. “I was just thinking and didn't need any distractions.”

“Hm.” Thoros shrugged and went around the columns to peer through the window to the bazaar in the yard. “Any epiphanies to share?”

“No.” Beric sighed and turned to Thoros. “It's still as convoluted as it was last night.”

“Sometimes that's because you make it that way.” Thoros left the window and came over. “You have a habit of getting lost in the thicket when searching trees in the forest.” He gave Beric a light push to rock the hammock. “What is 'it' anyway? Are you still worried how Renly's and Loras' weddings will pan out?”

Beric undecidedly shrugged, vaguely nodded, then looked up to Thoros. “Aye, what Loras told me paints a very different picture of the future than I ever imagined,” he said, then paused and hesitated. “Would fathering a child with another man's wife be sinful if he invites you to do it?” he asked when Thoros just looked puzzled and waited for further elaboration. “Would the child be a bastard if the man claims it has his blood? If he's wed to the mother and they'd raise the child as their trueborn heir?”

“I don't know.” Thoros stared at Beric in confusion. “I don't see how it would be wrong if the man and his wife make such an agreement with the true father. But I suppose the child would be a bastard, even if nobody knew. It would be a difficult thing to prove to begin with. And if the man and his wife raise the child as their own, it might be seen as an adoption in all but name in the eyes of the law.” He pushed the hammock again and shrugged. “It's just my best guess though. Maybe you should ask Renly about the legal implications if such a deal came to light.”

Beric's brow furrowed in thought and for a while it was silent, except for the cacophony from the vendors setting up the bazaar outside. “What about the gods?” Beric then asked. “Is it a sin if the man requests you lie with his wife and you do it? There'd be no lie between them, so would it still be betrayal? Would the gods object to such a deed if the man doesn't?”

“Which of the future wives clouds your mind so much that you mistake me for a septon?” Thoros chuckled when Beric looked away and didn't answer. “You're hoping Renly might ask you to take care of his marital duties? It pains me to tell you, but it seems his wife won't need a man to rumple the sheets.”

“Not Renly,” Beric calmly replied to Thoros' surprise. “He'll need a child with black hair, I can't give him that. Loras...” He broke off and cleared his throat, then looked at Thoros again. “I didn't tell you everything he said during our conversation last night and I doubt he was supposed to reveal it to me either. He joked about this, but I don't think the suggestion I could help him produce an heir one day was entirely made in jest.”

“I see.” Thoros' hand slowly wandered to Beric's head and ruffled his hair. “It's a sinful proposal in the eyes of your gods, but it would help a friend with his worldly troubles.” Beric nodded, but didn't add anything to the summary of the situation. “I'm still not a septon,” Thoros said, leaned down and put a kiss on Beric's forehead. “But if the Smith and the Warrior saw Lady Satal, I'm sure they'd be sympathetic about this kind of sin.”

“You are no septon indeed.” Beric shot him a reproachful glare, but he chuckled. “It's the Father I worry about.”

 

﴾ _____________________________________________________________________________________ ﴿

 

Renly ceased rummaging around in the trunk when he finally found the lighter cloak he had been looking for and pulled it out under the collection of other fine clothes. The last time Thoros had looked out of the window, a cart loaded with bales of cloth had blocked the yard's only access point, a narrow alley between two slanted houses. Five or six men, maybe more by now, were frantically gesturing and yelling on both sides as they tried to get the cart unstuck. They could still be heard from outside, though the voices now sounded like they were finally making some progress. There was no need to hurry, the night was very young, but it hadn't stopped Renly from getting giddier with excitement. He closed the trunk, threw the cloak over his arm and made a few steps toward the door, then stopped next to the hammock. Thoros tried to look at a map of the city and had trouble holding the parchment in place with one hand. His other arm was indisposed, Beric used it as pillow, dozing and slumped half over Thoros, while the pile of pillows on the bed had been left untouched.

After quizzically regarding the pillows for a moment, Renly's gaze wandered back to the hammock and when Thoros looked up from the map, Renly smiled. “You know, that looks rather...” he began and was cut off in an instant.

“Don't.” Thoros chuckled, he knew exactly what Renly was about to say and Beric didn't like being called 'adorable', not even by friends.

“Cozy,” Renly pointedly finished his sentence and exchanged an amused glance with Thoros. “I should have listened to you and bought one for myself.” He gave the hammock a little push and watched it rock back and forth between the two columns. “Maybe I should exercise my authority as Lord Paramount and just order you to give it up.”

“Go away!” Beric grumbled into Thoros' sleeve. “And take that despicable envy with you while you're at it! You'll have a rebellion at hand if you try to seize my possessions.” The unchanged, lazy posture didn't lend any credibility to the muffled threat and instead only made Renly silently laugh to himself.

“Not that this will help...” Thoros waved with his map, then put it down with a sigh. “But we still have a few days to find that merchant again. Or one with a similar stock. I'm still looking for a sturdier hammock for your brother, something that can hold him after a few nights of feasts. There has to be more than one guy selling hammocks this close to the coast.”

“But will any merchant sell such well-spoken pillows?” Renly snickered and leaned down to Beric's ear. “I might still have to go to war with Blackhaven if I want that as well,” he teasingly whispered. “Even if the prize would deny me wise council, my victory would teach my defiant bannerman a lesson he needs to learn.”

“Loras declared for me once in Harvest Hall,” Beric mumbled into the sleeve of his prized, well-spoken pillow, unimpressed by the Lord Paramount's threat. “He'll do so again, if only for the prospect of lazing far away from his father for a few weeks. We'll see how much seizing you do without your strongest ally.”

Renly stood up straight again, playing the role of a prideful contender even though Beric didn't look up. “Did you think I didn't consider Loras might betray me?” he playfully scoffed. “I'll just promise my brother the hammock we'll capture. That will make him overlook our recent disagreements and the crown's army will be mine.”

“You suspect Loras might be disloyal and think you could account for it with the support of your brother?” Thoros chuckled and shot a doubtful glance to Renly. “I expected a better plan from a sharp mind like yours.”

With a dramatic sigh, Renly turned away and glared to the window. “Salt in my wounds,” he said, his voice carrying deep, feigned regret. “Ever since I learned what you granted Loras, I wonder when the day will come and I can no longer bear knowing what you gave him and deny me. The day when my rampant envy drives him away.” He suddenly looked back to Beric and his brow furrowed in anger. “And that's your fault as well, Lightning Lord! Why did you have to sow the seeds of a too vivid imagination in my mind? Isn't it enough that you make my brother's blood boil with envy?”

“I didn't tell Loras anything I wouldn't tell you,” Beric gave back, undeterred. “And the king won't give you an army if you present him nothing but unfounded accusations. Remember, I'm the one with the hammock. Getting it from me means he won't have to make grudging peace with his impertinent brother.”

“You won't even admit to the audacious provocation you aimed at me?” Renly gasped with feigned indignation. “Do you deny that you suggested going to the miners' bathhouse when Loras stayed at Blackhaven instead of having baths prepared in your chambers? If you do, you're a liar. Loras told me you went there together and it amused him way too much seeing me writhe with envy for days!”

For a moment, Thoros just stared at Renly in disbelief, then he cautiously peeked to Beric. He was even more surprised at Beric's calm, almost bored answer. “Why would I deny taking a bath? It was a hot day and we had trained for several hours. The servants don't seem to understand how draining it is and prepare hot baths, no matter what they are told. The workers were still in the mines, so the water in the bathhouse was still fresh and clean. It comes straight from the mountains. It's cooler and more refreshing, of course we went there.”

Now Thoros chuckled and Renly stared at Beric in disbelief, having trouble not bursting out in loud laughter when he realized his precarious implications fell on deaf ears. “You're adorable,” he finally said after catching his breath, leaned down, put a kiss on Beric's temple and turned to leave.

 

Only when the door fell shut behind him, Beric quietly grumbled and lifted his head, a delayed reaction to being called the dreaded word. “Pillow defended,” he noted, then rested his head back on Thoros' shoulder.

Thoros watched him for a while, then cleared his throat to get Beric's attention. “You know what he was really saying, don't you?” he carefully inquired.

“Of course,” came a prompt, decided reply. “But it's much more entertaining if I pretend I don't.” He snickered and looked up to Thoros. “Frankly, it didn't occur to me that Loras might like the sight more than the refreshment when I made the suggestion,” he added in a more serious tone. “And it probably wouldn't have crossed my mind at all if Loras hadn't brought it up on his own. He said he was surprised that I had no reservations despite knowing about his inclination because even some of his guards and servants sometimes show discomfort.”

“That's kind of sad,” Thoros gave back. “These people should know him well enough to see his devotion to Renly.”

“It wasn't my first thought either,” Beric admitted. “Though, I didn't have any thoughts at all. My mind just went blank because it caught me off guard when he said that. It was too late to cover myself anyway at that point, so I just stared at him and tried to gather my thoughts. I blushed though and thought Loras found that very amusing, but then he told me why he really laughed.” He did a double take at Thoros' skeptical expression. “No, that's not why!” he quickly answered the unspoken question and now Thoros laughed at the preemptive offense Beric had taken.

“Then what was the reason?” he asked, still snickering, and ruffled Beric's hair as a wordless apology for the joking assumption.

“He laughed at the irony of the sight being wasted on him,” Beric set things straight. “That Renly would love to be in his place and have a hard time hiding that he enjoyed the view. He always had a weakness for fair hair and light complexions, Loras said, a preference he is glad for, but doesn't share.” He sighed and absently reached for the map Thoros had dropped. “Guess they got at least that right when they arranged his marriage. Loras said if he hadn't met Renly, he'd keep his eyes open for a lover in Dorne.”

“Seems like he's developing a habit of getting what other men would deeply desire and finding no appreciation for it.” Thoros plucked the map from Beric's hand, then glanced to the window. It was still not dark outside, but the merchants had been victorious over the stuck cart from the sound of it. “I'm just glad it didn't bruise your ego that the Pride of Highgarden would turn you down.”

“He called me 'handsome' before,” Beric almost defensively gave back. “He wasn't appalled or found me hideous, I just don't meet his preference, that's all.” He laboriously sat up to finally leave his cozy spot and stretched his back. “Funny enough, he, too, thought I might be offended and assured me he really likes my...” He paused and turned around to Thoros, meeting his snickering with a reproachful glare. “...eyes,” Beric sharply finished after a deep breath. “It's the contrast he likes in Renly, dark hair and bright eyes.” He got up and looked around on the floor for his boots. “And speaking of Renly, we should better go downstairs now and make sure he doesn't talk Leiff into moving his wedding to Highgarden.”

 

﴾ _____________________________________________________________________________________ ﴿

 

It felt like walking the streets of a different world when they left the inn and began exploring the maze of narrow alleys and hidden yards in the twilight. The evening brought cool air to the Shadow City and with it the townsfolk woke from the day's lazy slumber. A strong breeze from the sea carried the smells of tar, salt water and distant adventures and the voices of merchants and patrons now echoed between the Winding Walls. On the horizon, Sunspear's slender towers pierced the dusky sky with their golden roofs and in the streets, golden spearheads glistened as well. Larger bazaars, such as the falconer market outside the first of the Threefold Gates, were frequented by patrols of the shariffs, House Martell's city guard.

The eponymous shadows had turned the sleepy town into a flourishing city, but despite nightfall it was all but dark. Compared to King's Landing or even Oldtown, Dorne was an explosion of colors and impressions not found anywhere else in the realms. Scents of exotic spices and food wafted through the crowds dressed in bright, ornate robes and vendors praised their wares in foreign accents on every corner. Lord Vaith had made an effort of speaking pronounced and suppressing his Dornish drawl. Commoners in the streets of Sunspear, however, had no such consideration when competing for the attention of customers. The potpourri of strange tongues paired with their flamboyant, Dornish robes made them all seem like travelers from far away shores in Beric's mind.

 

“Leiff, look at this.” Renly stopped at the booth of a merchant and ran his hand over a bale of silky cloth. The booth's owner, a short, corpulent man with a white turban, was with him in an instant and helpfully removed other bales partially covering the one Renly had picked.

“From Volantis,” the man eagerly explained. “The finest silk you'll find in the city! May I show you the variety of colors I can offer? Blue like the waves of the Summer Sea, or perhaps you prefer a rich red, dark as wine?” A wide smile emerged in the thick jungle of the merchant's black beard when Renly shook his head, but kept inspecting the bale.

“I like this one,” he said and waved Leiff closer. “Reminds me of Arbor Gold, very suited for my wedding...” He pulled the bale out and stepped aside to let Leiff have a look.

“A wedding?” The merchant's smile beamed even brighter. “Your bride is very lucky, my lord. Not every woman is blessed with a husband of distinguished taste, which you clearly possess.”

“I'm sure she considers herself lucky.” Renly chuckled and watched Leiff undecidedly glance over the silk. “Say, do you have something in green as well? It would only be appropriate for the daughter of House Tyrell.”

The merchant's eyes widened in realization who his customer was and for a brief moment, he seemed frozen in awe. It only lasted for a heartbeat though; he quickly nodded and began scouring his booth for green fabrics. “Have you considered Myrish lace for the veil, my lord?” he asked while searching. “I have a variety of patterns on stock, I can send my assistant to get them right away if you wish to take a look!” He heaved three bales on top of the counter, green silk, satin and samite.

“I would like to see the lace indeed.” Renly returned the smile and appraisingly brushed over the newly presented wares. The merchant immediately scurried a few steps out of his booth and gestured to his assistant who was guarding a cart on a nearby corner. “This would also look beautiful against your lady's auburn hair, don't you think?” Renly turned to Leiff and looked back to the pale golden silk.

“It would,” Leiff hesitantly gave back. “But I'm not sure Lady Kareena would like it if I...”

“Don't consider the cost,” Renly cut him off. “I'll buy the entire bale either way and the green ones as well. Margaery has so many cousins and aunts who'll need dresses, paying for one more gown won't make a difference to me.”

“It's not the cost,” Leiff replied, now more firmly, but once more, he didn't get far.

“Is it the color?” Renly's hand wandered back to the green bales and he smiled at his sudden epiphany. “Of course, green reflects your house's sigil! Well, there's enough green silk here for both of us as well.”

Leiff shook his head and pulled out a bale of dark blue linen from underneath the satins and silks. “I'll wed Lady Kareena _Frey_ ,” he explained his odd choice. “House Frey's colors are blue and grey. If anything, I should choose a fabric like this.” Renly regarded the blue linen with some irritation, but helped Leiff free the bale for a better look. “Lord Frey isn't too concerned with the details,” Leiff added while inspecting the linen in the light of the booth's lanterns. “For all he cares we can exchange vows under a weirwood, he said. He won't even attend, though Lady Kareena is certain he'll send one or two of her uncles to witness the ceremony.” He looked up to Renly who still seemed puzzled at the humble choice Leiff made despite the generous offer. “But Lord Frey has been kinder than I ever expected,” he continued. “It can't be taken for granted that a man of his status allows me to wed his granddaughter. Even if he doesn't care, I want to show my respect.”

Renly thought for a moment, then he slowly nodded. “A honorable notion,” he said and looked back to the returning merchant. “We'll take all of these, the golden one, the green ones, the lace and this.” He pulled the blue linen out farther, so the merchant could see the selection. “You have parents,” he noted before Leiff could protest. “And siblings, if I'm not mistaken. I'm sure somebody will have use for fabrics resembling the color of your house.” When Leiff just stared at him, Renly shrugged and reached for his purse. “You can't dress your mother in the falconer's glove Beric bought you, can you?”

 

﴾ _____________________________________________________________________________________ ﴿

 

“I didn't know Thoros was so fond of cooking.” Renly chuckled when he watched Thoros follow Leiff across a crowded alley to a spice merchant's booth.

“He isn't,” Beric gave back. “He's looking for obscure ingredients for his hellish concoction. Tastes like something died and was left to rot in the dessert, but if you had too much wine, you'll thank the gods for the blessing it is.”

Renly stopped and appreciatively raised his eyebrows. “I wish him good luck on his quest then. That sounds like something I'll want for my wedding.” He paused and regarded Beric from the corner of his eye. “You weren't joking when you said you need help with the arrangements,” he noted, then glanced to the guards a few steps away. “If I hadn't bought the linen, there'd be nothing among those purchases that relates to Leiff's wedding at all.” The two men were loaded like mules and sweating despite the night's fresher air and they looked grateful when Renly nodded to the door of a nearby tavern, sparking hope they'd now get a well-earned break and chilled ale.

“Go ahead,” Beric told them. “Find us a table and order some drinks. We'll wait here for Leiff and Thoros, so we don't lose them in these crowded streets.” Relieved, the guards entered the building and once they had disappeared through the door, Beric turned back to Renly, not sure how to begin. It was an unpleasant topic and Beric didn't look forward to this conversation, but this was the best chance to get over with it. “Renly...” he began, still hoping the right words would come to him once started talking. “Can we talk for a moment?”

Renly shrugged and leaned back against the tavern's sandstone wall. “Of course, I always have an open ear for my friends,” he replied, casual as usual, though his expression said he sensed something was wrong.

Beric cleared his throat and stepped closer. It would be best keeping his voice down despite the noise of the street. “I don't have your way with words, so I'll just be blunt,” he said, looking Renly straight in the eyes. “I appreciate the luxuries you afford us on this journey and I don't want you to think I'm ungrateful. But I admit that I can't shake the feeling that you might have ulterior motives for spoiling me, Leiff and Thoros like this.” He waited for a reaction, but none came. Renly just regarded him furtively, though somewhat perplexed, and Beric took a deep breath before he continued. “I know there's bad blood between you and your brother and recently those tensions have reached new heights. I don't claim to understand why that is and I don't know your brother as well as I know you, but...” He broke off for another deep breath and Renly still didn't take the chance to interrupt. “All I'm trying to say is, please don't make me choose between you,” Beric got out. “I truly value our friendship, but he's the king and...”

“I'm not asking you to choose,” Renly finally cut him off, calm and cordial, apparently taking no offense from the accusation. “You are right, the feud with my brother has been on my mind when I invited you here. And I'm glad you said all this to my face instead of harboring silent suspicions.” He smiled and put an arm around Beric's shoulder. “Of course it would be foolish if you openly took my side. There's no reason why you should sully your good reputation over a brotherly quarrel.” He gently guided Beric toward the tavern door when he saw Thoros exchange coins for small bags with a merchant across the street. “I expect Robert will make me out as a demon, starting right after the wedding when there's no more need for public facades. He can be rather unreasonable and I advise keeping some distance to me if you want to stay in his good graces.” He stopped at the door and his eyes searched the crowd for Leiff and Thoros before Renly turned back to Beric. “I invited you here so you'll have this vivid memory of the truth. I'm your friend and not the monster my brother will tell you I am.”

 


	35. Before The Storm

Not even a hot, sunny day in King's Landing could rival the heat and the arid climate of Dorne. Still, the air in the tavern was stale and sticky and opening two or three more windows wouldn't have hurt. It was crowded here, as it was everywhere else in the city. Every inn, every tavern, every ale house and every brothel was filled to the brim with visitors from near and far. When Robert I. Baratheon, King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm celebrated his fortieth name day, there was no need for polite invitations. The realms knew they were called upon, and most of them came.

“This might be my last chance at getting a white cloak instead of golden shackles.” Loras raised his cup, vaguely toasting to Beric. “If I impress the king enough in the tourney, he might appoint me to the Kingsguard and I escape my Dornish fate.”

It was a challenge, albeit a friendly one, and Beric knew this time it was said bare of jest. He returned the toast, poured down his ale and put the mug down on the table. “May the better man win,” he gave back. “And take comfort in knowing it will be a bittersweet victory for him.”

Loras emptied his cup and leaned back with a dry laughter. “I can't tell if that's hubris or kindness,” he said and gestured for the wine jugs. “The week with Renly sure left its mark on you. I might just knock you off that horse to make you speak normally again.”

Anguy pushed the jug closer to Loras and regarded him with a quizzical face. “You'd rather have a white cloak than a Dornish woman, but you tell _him_ something is wrong with his head?” He scoffed and took a swig from his wine.

“It is the greatest honor the king can bestow upon a knight,” Beric reminded him. “Refraining from wine, wealth and women for the chance of an appointment is not the insane choice you think it is.”

Loras nodded while refilling his cup, but Thoros thoughtfully shook his head. “As true as it is, there's still one small problem.” Beric and Anguy turned to him, Loras didn't seem concerned and just continued pouring the wine. “There are seven Kingsguards,” Thoros continued. “Unless one of them died and the news didn't reach us in Dorne. But I find that rather unlikely. I'd certainly have heard about it by now.”

“A lot can happen during the tourney,” Loras gave back with a shrug. “Forty thousand golden dragons for the joust's winner. Another twenty for the one taking second place. The same for the victor of the melee, and ten thousand for the best archer.” He looked to Thoros and pushed the jug closer to him. “No tourney had prizes like these before. Have you seen the scum the prospect of such riches has lured to the city? I wouldn't be surprised if one of these scoundrels drunkenly makes an attempt at the king's life or picks a fight with the white cloaks to prove his prowess.”

“Not to diminish your confidence, but the Kingsguard is composed of the realms' finest swordsmen,” Beric began. “What makes you think they can't handle drunken...”

“Meryn Trant,” Loras firmly cut him off, looking Beric straight in the eye. “Boros the Belly.” He paused and waited, but nobody on the table said a word. “You think those are 'fine swordsmen'?” Loras laughed, then turned deadly earnest all of a sudden. “Besides, the gods owe me. Last night I prayed to the Warrior for good fortune in the tourney, and to the Stranger for a spot in the Kingsguard. If only one of them answers my prayers, I will accept whichever path they set me on.”

 

Thoros was about to reply, though he didn't quite know what to say about Loras' macabre preparation for the tourney. A voice calling out for him, both relieved and exhausted, saved him from having to come up with an answer. He turned around, trying to see who had addressed him over the buzz of the tavern, then he spotted a young man near the door. Thoros recognized him, it was Roland Waynwood of Ironoaks, a protege of Jon Arryn who currently stayed in the Red Keep. The young man was a squire and trained with the housed knights, and many expected him to receive his knighthood soon after the upcoming tourney. What he might want from Thoros was anyone's guess; they had barely spoken a word in the past, but he purposefully made his way through the crowd.

“I should have listened to Ser Barristan right away,” he greeted the group on Thoros' table, still breathing heavily. “He said I would find you here and I shouldn't bother searching the taverns near the harbor.”

“I've been back in the city for two days,” Thoros replied, slightly puzzled. “What urgent matters did Ser Barristan task you with that you thought to lay in wait for my ship in the harbor?”

“Oh, he isn't looking for you,” Roland replied. “He sent me to find Lord Beric and Ser Loras. It's easier tracking your whereabouts and Ser Barristan said they'd be with you.” He took the mug of ale Thoros offered him and quickly emptied it. “When I asked where you are, I was told the ship hadn't docked yet and was expected to arrive just before dawn. So I scoured the harbor first, instead of doing what Ser Barristan suggested: sit in your favorite tavern and wait.”

Thoros laughed and pulled the only unoccupied chair out from the table. “Never too late for that,” he said and gave Roland Waynwood an encouraging nod. “Sit, have another drink and tell us what Ser Barristan needs my companions for.”

The same question lingered on the faces of Beric and Loras, both watched Roland with furtive eyes as he sat down. There was a hint of disbelief in their expressions and the thought that Loras' prayers had been answered much faster than expected certainly crossed their minds.

“The king occasioned additional training for the Kingsguard, in preparation for the tourney at the end of the week,” Roland explained while Thoros filled his mug with ale. “He expects peak performance and while that's the formal statement, it is suspected he's not too confident that certain white cloaks will deliver it. Ordering all of them to train harder likely means he wants some of them to whip others into better shape.” He took the mug and drank a swig, sighed with relief and went on to elaborate. “Ser Barristan is one of the 'some', as is Ser Jaime. They are not known to get along well, so when they agree on something for once, it is taken into serious consideration by the king.”

While Beric listened intently, Loras ran out of patience. “And what is it they agreed on?” he asked when Roland paused to drink instead of revealing his orders. “Did they suggest changing the law and dismissing those who can't match their skill?”

“Not quite.” Roland set the mug down and declined with a brief gesture when Thoros tried to fill it again. “They suggested inviting more contenders to join their training, so they'd inspire the dregs to perform better.” He nodded when Anguy tried to fill the mug with wine instead of ale. “They didn't phrase it that way,” he quickly added. “But you get the gist of it. Your names were the first Ser Barristan brought up to His Grace, and to everybody's surprise, Ser Jaime immediately agreed and expanded the list.”

Anguy smirked to himself and glanced over to Beric who answered with a reprimanding glare, a silent 'keep your mouth shut'. “Guess I'm losing my appeal as a storyteller,” Thoros prevented a teasing comment about Beric's past habit of getting struck by awe if knights of such repute paid attention to him. “Selmy has asked quite a few times about your charade at Harvest Hall, but it seems he'd rather hear the tale from the men involved.” He drank from his wine and furrowed his brow in thought. “But Ser Jaime's interest in training with you certainly comes as a surprise.”

“Not to me,” Loras confidently stated. “I can put myself in his place very well. He must be bored out of his mind facing men like Boros Blount or Meryn Trant, the dregs, as you called them.” He looked to Roland who very slightly, yet very firmly nodded. “Of course, Ser Jaime is glad for opponents who can give him a real challenge and further hone his skill.”

 

﴾ _____________________________________________________________________________________ ﴿

 

“I'm really glad you made it to King's Landing before the tourney.” Thoros opened the door of the tavern and took a slight bow when he waved Anguy in. “I didn't expect Barristan Selmy, of all people, would swoop in and steal away my companions.”

“Serves you right,” Anguy gave back with an indignant huff. “You didn't take me along to Sunspear, why should you get all the fun you want now?”

“You can't blame me for that!” Thoros protested and followed him into the tavern; noisy and crowded, just like the one they had been to the night before. “Blame Olenna Tyrell if you must. She had the last word about the invitations. Beric and I were there as a favor to Renly and Loras. If you had shot those dolts at Harvest Hall, Lady Margaery might have put your name on the list.” He directed Anguy to a table near the counter and waved a tavern wench over on the way. “And we didn't forget about you,” he added in a more amicable tone. “Beric even bought you a hammock so you won't miss out.”

Anguy shot him a reproachful glance and pulled a chair out from the table. “Aye, he did. So he can get back at me for every prank I've played on him in the past.” He sat down and crossed his arms, still glaring at Thoros. “Leiff knows where my chambers are and that boy is sneaky. I'm not naive enough to believe they don't conspire against me and I'd find myself trapped in the hammock whenever I dared sleeping in it. And you're in on it. You corrupted Beric, made him a trickster in your own image.”

Thoros calmly listened and watched the tavern wench approach with a tray, carrying two jugs of wine, not waiting for him to make an order. “Still sour about the honey-glazed bowstring?” he noted when she put the jugs and cups down between Anguy and him. “It's been what, four or five years? Time to let go and admit that I won.” Anguy furtively regarded him, then his eyes wandered to the cup in front of him when Thoros began filling it. “Admit defeat and you have my word that I won't conspire with my corrupted crony this year to prank you again.”

“Don't you dare!” Anguy almost jumped up from his chair, but quickly composed himself and picked up the cup. “You won, there, I said it. Now swear you won't undermine my chances at a purse of ten thousand golden dragons.”

“I swear it,” Thoros gave back with a satisfied chuckle. “And if you pay the next round, Jalabhar might find his bowstring strangely sticky instead.”

“No.” Anguy took a swig, then shook his head. “He's the one to beat, I know how good he is from past tourneys. But I don't want a cheap victory or any tricks.” He drank some more and watched Thoros with an unusually serious, determined expression. “While you were frolicking through the deserts, I practiced my aim every day. My drunk luck got me far, all things considered, but I had to concede that luck has its limits. Jalabhar Xho placed better than me every single time I competed in King's Landing. Twice, he won. Three times we were both among the ten best archers, but he always came in a few spots ahead of me. This year, I'll take him by surprise and do the last thing he expects me to do.” He smirked over the edge of his cup. “I'll compete sober.”

Thoros lowered the cup instead of drinking and calmly waited for Anguy to laugh and say this was a joke. But all Anguy did was sip from his wine and casually study the tavern's menu, displayed in large letters on a board above the counter. “You, sober?” Thoros asked after waiting a little while longer. “On the biggest tourney the realms have had in years?”

“What better chance could I get?” Anguy waved one of the tavern wenches, busy as bees, to the table and turned back to Thoros when one woman acknowledged him with a nod. “I know I can beat any man drunk in small, backwater tourneys. Competing in those won't answer the question if I can beat His Highness by combining sobriety and with my luck.”

Thoros slowly nodded and regarded Anguy with a thoughtful yet appreciative expression. “You are serious about this,” he noted. “Have you told Beric yet? I'm sure he'd be...”

“No, and you won't tell him yet either!” Anguy hastily cut him off. “He's been telling me for years I should try it and I never listened. Every year, when I returned from King's Landing and complained that I didn't win, he'd be all high and mighty. 'Let me guess, you were drunk out of your mind and the prince who beat you was sober', he would say. I don't need such distractions, this is too important.” He looked up when the wench approached the table, balancing a tray of empty cups and impatiently waiting for his order. “I'll have the mutton chops and some cider,” Anguy told her, then glanced to Thoros and the jugs on their table. “Bring my friend the venison pie. That's all, I think he'll be busy with the wine for a while.”

“You're too generous.” Thoros chuckled and refilled his cup. “But what makes you think Beric won't say the same if you tell him you heeded his advice after the competition? He won't let you live it down if it turns out he was right all this time.”

“Either it turns out he was wrong,” Anguy replied with a smug smile. “Or he was right, but I don't care about his teasing anymore because I'm ten thousand golden dragons richer and won't have to worry about getting by in the future.”

 

﴾ _____________________________________________________________________________________ ﴿

 

“This is insane! Half the realms must be here by now. Come evening, and every house from the North to the desserts of Dorne will be abandoned if people keep flooding in like this.” Anguy put a tray filled with jugs, bottles and stacked mugs on the table, then stepped over the bench and sat down. “I thought it was crowded when we set up tent in the morning, but that was a pale shadow compared to now. You can barely see which merchant sells what until you fight your way to the counter.”

“I've never seen this many tents at once,” Leiff agreed, nodding to the sea of pavilions, stretching from the tourney grounds outside the King's Gate to the banks of the Blackwater Rush. There were streaming banners in every color under the sun; he could make out House Manderly's aquamarine field with its prominent merman, the black and white birds of House Swann of Stonehelm, House Prester's red ox, the grey and blue towers of House Frey's banner, and many more from all over the realms. “We better make our way to the archery range early, otherwise we can't see a thing from the last rows.”

“And we better watch our purses,” Loras added and reached for one of the jugs on Anguy's tray. “For every tent standing behind us, there are two pickpockets scouring the grounds, looking for easy prey.”

“Just balances the odds in our favor.” Beric took the mug Leiff had filled for him with ale. “Unless the wine merchants run dry, they'll all be drunk before the first tilt. They'll probably start stealing from each other because they won't be looking too closely anymore when picking their targets.”

“An accurate prediction, as far as I can tell.” The voice came from a large shadow, falling over Beric, Loras and Thoros who sat with their backs turned to the tents. “I just witnessed the guards taking away two men whose argument over who stole from whom first escalated.”

This testimony conjured up chuckles and Beric gestured to Leiff and the tray before turning around and greeting Ser Aydan. While Leiff filled mugs for the new arrivals, Beric introduced Lady Symone to Loras and Ser Aydan presented his new page, Olyven Melcolm of Old Anchor. The boy, pale with bright red cheeks, made a reserved, almost dull first impression; certainly not a coincidence Ser Aydan had picked Rowland's opposite after the past ordeal. After the introductions, the trio sat down and gladly accepted the drinks Leiff offered. Symone was beaming when she talked about her young daughter, how much she had grown and what words she had muttered. The tensions at Farwatch Keep had calmed down considerably since Beric's last visit and the fact that Rowland was now living with House Langley probably had more than a little to do with it.

The group grew larger after the first round of the joust. Beric, Loras and Aydan returned victorious and brought company to the table. Ser Wylis Manderly and Ser Donnel Locke of Oldcastle were with them, as well as their squires, Ser Wylis' wife Leona, Ser Donnel's daughter Marielle and her husband, Lord Owell Glain.

“This is the perfect distraction,” Anguy whispered to Thoros with a roguish grin. “With all that talk of the upcoming wedding and their discussions about who had the toughest opponent, nobody will pay any attention to what I drink. Beric still hasn't noticed I didn't touch the wine all day and Leiff just pours ale in my mug without second thoughts.”

“There's a lot competition, from what I can tell,” Thoros quietly replied. “Every man with a bow has signed up for a shot at ten thousand dragons. It's a long way to go before the wheat even begins separating from the chaff.”

“It's a matter of discipline,” Anguy lectured him with an air of importance. “Of course I could get could drunk until there's only _real_ competition left on the range.” He sipped from his mug, as if it was the finest wine of the realms, though Thoros was well-aware Anguy drank watered down mead. “But maybe the secret to defeating Jalabhar will reveal itself through careful observation. I'll keep a close eye on those who placed well in the past years. Alan of Rosby, Ser Balon Swann, Grendyn Sarsfield and, of course, my true rival.” Thoros listened with his most earnest expression, but when he heard the list of names, he snickered into his mug. “What is so amusing?” Anguy's brow furrowed and he quickly looked around, seeing if they were overheard.

“You sound exactly like Beric during tourneys,” Thoros explained. “Smart move keeping your plan a secret. If he heard you talk like that, he'd tease you for days.”

 

﴾ _____________________________________________________________________________________ ﴿

 

“It's still a mixed bag tomorrow,” Ser Wylis drew their attention back to the table's main subject of conversation. “On one hand, you'll have Lord Bryce Caron fight it out with Ser Jaime of the Kingsguard. On the other hand, Lord Beric and I have to waste our talent against nameless dregs.”

“See it as a challenge.” Loras shot him a smug smile and toasted to him with his wine. “Maybe the mystery knights are more skilled than you'd ever expect. Isn't it a thrill not to know what you should be prepared for?”

“You keep your mouth shut, young buck!” Ser Donnel laughed and answered the toast. “At least you get to face a White Cloak. Granted, it's Ser Meryn, but that's still a step up from hedge knights and sellswords. What was the king thinking, making a tourney with purses like this 'free for all'?”

“Don't be so spiteful.” Beric tried to keep a straight face when he shot Ser Donnel his best, joking glare. “Ser Meryn did better than in the past. He made it through the first round this year, that's an accomplishment, measured by his list of wins. He might surprise us all if we underestimate him.”

Ser Wylis guffawed and slapped Ser Donnel's shoulder. “What do you say, old friend? Shall we change our bets and put it all on Ser Meryn? It's true, he defeated a strong opponent. Northmen always put up a good fight.”

Ser Donnel shook his head, laughing. “A Northman who knows a lot about horses, but had never competed in a joust until today.” He gestured to his squire for more wine, then put on a serious expression. “Of course, that's not meant to downplay his achievement. If you leave out certain details, you could truthfully say that Ser Meryn is the only man who ever unseated the stablemaster of Winterfell.”

“I think we can all agree that we had more luck in the draw than Beric.” Loras smirked, put an arm around Beric and pulled him closer. “Did you see how the lad lowered his lance, how he sat in the saddle? His only experience with jousting might be knowing how the word is written, and I'm not even sure about that.”

“And that still gave him the advantage today,” Ser Aydan noted. “Even if he only gets half of the letters right, that's probably twice as much as his opponent knew. An actor from Braavos practicing for his portrayal of a knight in a play, who ever thought it was a good idea to let him compete?”

Ser Wylis took a hearty bite from his baked apple, then washed it down with a swig from his wine. “I must dispute the claim,” he declared. “My opponent weighs a third of myself, yet when he mounts his horse he has the grace of a turtle. He can barely hold his lance still and it looks like the weapon is wielding him instead of the other way around.”

“You make a strong case,” Beric admitted. “He advanced to the next round solely because his opponent dropped the shield during the first pass and yielded after realizing he was too drunk to pick it up.” He toasted to Ser Wylis and drank a sip from his ale. “We'll find out tomorrow which of us had worse luck in the draw.”

 

﴾ _____________________________________________________________________________________ ﴿

 

Thoros had to admit that he almost felt disappointment when nothing out of the ordinary occurred in the first rounds. Anguy acted cocky as usual, barely took aim and still never came close to missing the mark. Some of his competitors blamed the wind when they couldn't keep up with the frontrunners and each time they gave voice to it, Thoros wished they had a point. The afternoon sun burned without mercy and a fresh breeze seemed worth forfeiting ten thousand dragons.

“You friend is good,” Ser Aydan noted after another effortless and yet perfectly aimed shot by Anguy, granting him the advancement to the next round.

Beric nodded, not turning away from the lists, and took a sip from his mug of ale. “Aye, I expect him to make it into the finals as usual. That's when the wine gets to his head and he misses the one critical shot he needs to win.” He chuckled, poured down the ale and looked for Leiff, then handed him the empty mug. “It played out like that for five years. Each time he came home and complained about 'doing so well' until the 'obnoxious prince' beat him, just when Anguy was certain he would win.”

Leiff shouldered his way through the crowd toward the merchants, after telling Iagan to defend his front row spot. “I think this year he'll make it,” Thoros firmly noted and leaned his arms on the fence. “I wagered good money on his victory. Ten thousand dragons aren't a joke, it might be the motivation he needs to pull through.”

“I'm not a gambling man,” Ser Aydan slowly said as he watched three more contenders miss the shot that had given Anguy no trouble. “But I'm inclined to agree with your prediction.” He glanced down to Lady Symone, standing in front of him, undisturbed by pushes and shoves from other spectators, thanks to the mountain of a husband holding them back with his mass. “What does my dearest lady think? Shall we take a risk and bet some coins?”

Instead of answering, Symone quickly nodded and immediately reached for her well-guarded purse. “All on victory,” she cheerfully declared when she threw the bag to her husband's page.

Beric regarded her with a skeptically raised eyebrow and a wry smile. “Don't say I didn't warn you,” he said, and as if to punish his words, another handful of Anguy's competitors left the range, heads lowered in defeat.

“We've been proper and well-behaved for so long,” Symone gave back with an unladylike, roguish smile. “I've never been a wild child, you know that, but in recent years the scrutiny of your uncle was a little too much, even for me.” She reached for her husband's cup of wine and drank a few sips before giving it back. “Now he's happy with us for once. He had his grand wedding, we gave him a beautiful grandchild and he made Aydan his formal heir. With all that behind us, it must be allowed to let loose a bit.” She smirked and leaned closer to whisper in Beric's ear. “Aydan promised we'll visit an ale house tonight. Such an improper place for a lady!”

“And we'll have six guards as company,” Aydan added with an adoring glance down to his wife. “We shouldn't get too crazy with the freedom we have, or I've been your father's heir for the shortest time.”

 

﴾ _____________________________________________________________________________________ ﴿

 

Beric didn't trust his eyes when Anguy's last arrow perfectly hit its target and the crowd broke out in roaring cheers and thundering applause. But it took only a moment and another two buzzing arrows to confirm Anguy really had made it this time. The arrows, carelessly shot with the cockiness only Anguy could muster, split those of the final competitors in rapid succession. Ser Balon Swann and Jalabhar Xho, the two other finalists, added their 'aahs' and 'oohs' to the baffled murmur that went through the mass of spectators.

“I don't believe it,” Beric muttered under his breath as he watched the herald raise Anguy's arm, confirming his victory. “Of course, I'm happy for him,” he quickly added and glanced to Thoros. “I just didn't think it would ever happen any more than he did. Every year, when he complained about Jalabhar snatching away the victory in the finals, Anguy sounded like he, too, thought of this feat as impossible and was simply too stubborn to give up his pursuit.”

“What you'll hear next will sound even more unbelievable,” Thoros replied with an ominous smile. “But I can attest to its truth.”

Before Beric could inquire what secret had been kept from him, Anguy arrived at the fence, a proud grin on his face and a bag full of rattling coins in his hand. He ducked under the fencing and grabbed Beric and Thoros in a hug, then raised the purse over his head for the audience to see. “That's going to be one long, splendid night at Chataya's,” he announced.

“I have no trouble believing _that_.” Beric shot a glare at Thoros, then turned back to Anguy and congratulated him with another hug. Only when he let go, he noticed irritation and puzzlement in Thoros' eyes and his gaze slowly wandered to Anguy's mysterious smile.

“I was sober,” he said. “The entire time. Didn't drink a drop of wine since we arrived in the morning.” He nodded over his shoulder to Thoros. “Ask him, if you don't believe me.”

“I...” Beric began, then his voice trailed off and he just stared at Anguy in realization and disbelief. “Are you... serious?” he finally got out when Anguy just triumphantly grinned at him.

“I was about to ask the same question,” Thoros added, slight bewilderment echoing in his words. “Didn't you tell me the prize would be put toward your future? What plans do you have that the priciest brothel in King's Landing seems like a good venture to invest in?”

Anguy broke out in loud laughter, as if Thoros had told the best joke of the year. “Did you think I told _you_ everything?” Anguy got out while gasping for air. “I didn't trust you with the whole story, and why would I, knowing the two of you are thick as thieves?” He put his arms around their shoulders and led Thoros and Beric away from the fence, through the crowd and toward their table. “Ten thousand dragons are too much to keep my head out of the clouds,” he said as they walked. “So I'll blow it tonight and relieve myself of that burden. Consider it a personal celebration, my way of saying farewell to the wild days of youth.”

“You're twenty-two,” Thoros plainly noted, simply because he had nothing better to say. He exchanged a puzzled glance with Beric who just answered with an even more dumbfounded expression and shrugged.

Anguy smirked to himself, then after a few steps he finally explained. “Lord Ossyn took note of my recent practice. That I worked harder than usual and was more determined. His observations intrigued him enough to ask about the reasons for my changed attitude. One evening, he called me to the solar and we talked for a long time about my goals and the future. Before I left for King's Landing, he told me that it won't matter to him if I return victorious or not. That there will be a spot in Blackhaven's garrison waiting for me either way.” He released Thoros and Beric from his arms and threw his heavy purse on the table when they arrived there. “Once all these coins are gone and forgotten, there'll be no 'what ifs' and no distractions. I'll have my future lined up and will train other archers. As far as jobs go, I can't think of any better.”

Beric sat down on the bench and took a deep breath, then looked up and made sure he was really talking to Anguy. “Now that's much harder to fathom than your plans to visit Chataya's,” he admitted, though he smiled. “I guess I won't really believe it until I see it with my own eyes. But that doesn't mean I'm not glad to hear it.”

“I'll buy the next round!” Anguy, still standing, announced to the group gathered on the table. “And the one after that, and then another!”

Thoros chuckled and leaned closer to Beric. “The witch got that one right in Hag's Mire,” he whispered. “That's fame and fortune right there.” He nodded to the bag full of coins and his eyes followed it when Anguy picked it up. “And joining Blackhaven's garrison sure sounds like he doesn't plan to abandon his roots.”


	36. Tempest In A Wine Cup

“You did _what_?” Leiff gave voice to what everyone thought. Anguy calmly placed a crate of Prince's Delight on the table, a costly amber wine from Pentos that only one booth on the tourney grounds sold.

“Are you out of your mind, refusing the queen?” Loras tried again, staring with unveiled bewilderment, as did everyone else on the table since Anguy had returned.

“I didn't refuse her,” Anguy corrected, picked up a bottle and appraisingly inspected the label. “I just didn't step forward, that's all.”

“But she would have picked you!” Leiff watched Anguy put the bottle back in its crate and covering it with straw before closing the lid. “You won the archery contest, you would have been her first choice for sure.”

Anguy shrugged, stored the crate under the bench, then sat down and reached for a jug of cider. “If she was dead set on me, she wouldn't have summoned the ten best contenders. And she wouldn't have given the man she wanted a choice, but an order.” He grabbed an empty mug and filled it with cider, drank a sip and ignored the confused stares resting on him.

“Do you have any idea what you rejected? You'd have been housed in the Red Keep. You could have earned a good reputation among nobles.” Loras waited for a reaction, for Anguy to realize his mistake. But instead, Anguy calmly sipped from his cider and surveyed the food on the table. “Not only would instructing the prince have been a great honor,” Loras continued. “I'm sure there were more than a few coins in that offer. You could have earned more in a year than in a lifetime, perhaps even elevated your status and...”

“...and wasted my skills on a pampered boy,” Anguy finished the sentence. “I don't need an 'elevated' status and I won more coins than I can carry just one day ago. Not that there's much left of that now, but I spent it all for a reason.” He pulled a basket with sweet bread closer, then gestured for a bowl of sausages. “A guard captain from Sarsfield stepped forward, I think he came in fifth yesterday. The queen seemed satisfied and the remaining nine were free to go. Everyone's happy, and I'll make it back to Blackhaven in time and win my bet.”

“Your bet?” Beric echoed. He had quietly listened to the conversation and even knowing what he knew, it was still a strange thing to see Anguy like this. Though it was the second day of the tourney, he was sober and apparently not all of his winnings had been left at Chataya's the night before. During the morning, Beric had slowly wrapped his mind around the realization that Anguy was serious about this new outlook on life, but seeing a crate of expensive wine from Pentos and hearing bets mentioned made him doubt it would last.

“With your father,” Anguy gave back as if Beric already knew the answer and just had to be reminded. “And I'm fairly confident I'll win it. At Renly's wedding, you'll see me wear the colors of your house for the first time.”

“You will attend Renly's wedding?” Beric looked even more puzzled than before. “You can't stand formal events and that one will be as formal as an event can possibly be.” He paused and thought, then a new question took shape in his mind. “And why would you wear my colors? Are you planning to pass as me and trick Lady Olenna? If that's your bet, I'm afraid Loras was right when he said nobody can trick her and...”

“Because guards wear the colors of their houses,” Anguy cut him off with an incredulous smile. “I reckon your father doubts my change of heart as much as you do. So he offered a wager. He told me to bring back a full crate of a rare vintage, something I can't possibly replace on the way. If I resist the temptation and no bottle is missing or has been opened, I'll be in his guard when he rides to the wedding.” He grabbed a sausage from the bowl and took a bite. “You need to search my saddlebags before my departure,” he added, chewing, and reached for the cider. “So you can confirm I didn't have more bottles on me when I left King's Landing.”

 

﴾ _____________________________________________________________________________________ ﴿

 

“If I didn't see it with my own eyes, I still wouldn't believe it,” Thoros said, more to himself, as his gaze followed Anguy, leading his horse toward the trail to the King's Gate. “Him, leaving a tourney and big celebration, so temptation won't get the better of him? That sure feels like an era is ending.”

“And a better one begins,” Lady Symone noted, then looked down the list to both sides; contrary to her answer, the next tilt was far from beginning. “I remember Anguy from my visits to Blackhaven,” she turned to Thoros. “He wouldn't stop flirting with me, told uncouth jokes and tried to impress me with trick shots. It is comforting that my wayward brother appears to be an exception and others grow out of old, bad habits like these.” When she noticed that Lady Leona, Lady Marielle and Lord Glain glanced over, she adjusted her volume and continued more hushed. “Don't get me wrong, I love Rowland, he's my own flesh and blood. But I can't find a fault with my parents or with their attempt at taming his temper. They did so much for him, and he only repaid them in sorrow and shame.”

“Sometimes it's nobody's fault,” Thoros replied and leaned over the fence to see the end of the list.

Beric was still at the starting position and his horse impatiently pawed the sand. The opponent he was waiting for was a gruff-looking man, easily old enough to be Beric's father. However, his age didn't speak to his experience; the herald had announced him by a name nobody knew. He wore a checkered cloak and dented armor that had probably received its scratches in battle rather than tourneys and had been catching dust until the man had heard about this year's staggering purse. The day before, Ser Donnel had noted the armor and cloak looked old enough to have been worn during Robert's Rebellion and Ser Wylis assumed that's when both were last used. They now got a closer look at the attire, as they had been assigned the same starting position and Thoros could see them chat with Loras back there. The reason for the delay stood there as well, a balking horse that had decided it liked the opposite direction much better. Its owner was engaged in a lively discussion with two guards while trying to turn his mount around, but it was obvious the man wasn't accustomed to horses. A sellsword who fancied himself a knight for a day, Thoros assumed.

“Your husband showed more patience with Rowland than most men would have had in his position,” he added, looking back to Lady Symone. “He did all he could and so did your parents. Take comfort in knowing Rowland's life could have taken a much worse turn than it did, all things considered.”

“I do,” Lady Symone said and nodded. “Though it doesn't feel good admitting that I'm grateful for Aydan's new page taking the place of my own brother.” She sighed and looked to the end of the list, where not only Beric still waited on the back of his horse, but Ser Aydan had shouldered his way to the front row of spectators and cleared a spot at the fence for his page. “Such a well-behaved, quiet boy,” she noted, then emptied her wine.

“He seems eager to learn,” Thoros agreed. “I noticed him observe Leiff all day and study the way he carried out tasks.” He looked to the sellsword and his unwilling horse again. By now, the man had finally given up his attempts at gaining control. Two tourney hands were leading the horse away from the list and Beric's opponent tried to drape the caparison over a different mount. He didn't make much progress, despite the new horse standing still, and Symone sighed again, glancing to the empty cup in her hand.

“I'll get you a new one,” Thoros offered and took the cup from her. “Seems it will take a while until that dolt has dressed his horse.”

 

﴾ _____________________________________________________________________________________ ﴿

 

When Thoros reached the merchant area, a disgruntled crowd was already gathered around the tents and stalls. Apparently, the delay had exhausted their patience and cups and the afternoon heat didn't help either. Every last merchant was under siege, whether he sold beer, ale, wine or cider. Even the pavilion of the Pentoshi trader was surrounded, despite the exorbitant prices of his rare goods. For a moment, Thoros considered grabbing some brewer's horse and trying to catch up with Anguy. He had just reached the trail and not even mounted his horse yet. There was a good chance he had some drinks for the way and if he wasn't in a hurry, maybe he'd leave some to Thoros and stock up in a tavern or inn on the road.

There was a roar of the crowd from the lists when Thoros had almost made it to the counter of the nearest merchant. Maybe the sellsword had finally dressed the damned horse, Thoros thought, and the audience mocked his pitiful success with loud cheers. Even if he hurried back now and abandoned the prospect of refreshments, the tilt would probably be over before he got there. Loras had unseated Ser Meryn Trant during the first pass earlier and Beric was determined to keep up. A sellsword with no discernible jousting experience stood no chance against him and the bookmakers' odds reflected that notion. Refreshments, Thoros decided. He'd watch the next round, which would likely pit Beric against a more skilled opponent and offer a more exciting display.

Another roar went through the crowd, followed by sudden dead silence. Slightly puzzled, Thoros turned around and caught glimpse of Anguy, on his horse and riding back toward the lists as if he was chased by axe-throwing mountain tribesmen. Something wasn't right over there, though Thoros couldn't see what it was from the distance. He shouldered his way back through the people besieging the merchants, looking around for clues or familiar faces to ask what had happened. Between two tents, he saw the starting position opposite of Beric's; the eastern end of the list. Loras was on his horse and argued with a cluster of guards and other contestants, all of which were blocking his way. Thoros walked faster; things weren't just 'not quite right', they were wrong, very wrong. The full list finally came into view and Thoros froze when he spotted the checkered cloak. The man was on his horse as well, or whoever the mount really belonged to, and he, too, was surrounded by guards, but there was no trace of Beric.

 _This is impossible_ , Thoros thought. _He can't possibly have unseated Beric._ Dumb luck just couldn't overcome such a glaring absence of skill. The harrowing howl of a dying horse broke the eerie silence and with it, murmurs arose among the spectators.

“An accident,” one man told another. “The lance fell and pierced through the neck of the horse!”

“They shouldn't allow untrained chumps to compete against knights,” a noblewoman firmly said to her handmaiden. “The young lord showed so much promise. It would be a shame if the fall broke his neck.”

Thoros just stared, unable to move for a moment, trying to process what he had heard. The murmurs got louder and more fragments of strangers' conversations drifted by, all saying the same, none sounding certain. Thoros didn't even realize he had begun walking again, he only woke from his trance when he almost collided with a group of guards and evaded them in the very last moment. There were still people rushing to the lists from all directions and scattered food stands blocked his sight. The fastest way to western end of the list was the path by the camp, Thoros hastily decided. The pavilions were abandoned, not even guards were still there.

He made his way around tents and small tables, stepped over ropes and ducked under awnings, as fast as he could. Through a gap between two pavilions, he saw Robert standing in front of his chair, gesturing wildly, apparently discussing with two of his Kingsguards and the herald. The sellsword was still on his horse, but the view was half-obscured by a structure displaying House Baratheon's banner. As far as Thoros could tell, the man was waiting for something that would tell him whether he should return to the starting position or leave the list.

 

“Thoros! Shh, over here!” a hushed voice called out, but Thoros had no mind to pay any attention, he was consumed by more pressing thoughts. This couldn't be what the swamp witch had meant, it was impossible that was the vision she saw, why she said 'he can't live without you'. It couldn't be as bad as it looked, it just couldn't be, no god – his or hers – would allow it. Once he'd reach the end of the list, he'd see it was all just blown out of proportion. It would turn out the fall had looked worse than it was and people simply overreacted; Beric was fine and would get up any moment.

Thoros had already circumvented the most crowded areas and the western end of the list was now in sight, but before he made it farther than that, someone grabbed his arm and pulled him behind a dark red pavilion.

“Listen to me!” The voice wasn't as hushed as before, but now it sounded more impatient, more urgent. The man it belonged to lowered his well-worn hood, revealing short, blond hair, and somewhere in the back of Thoros' mind a flash of recognition took form.

“Ser Danyal?” he got out, for a moment overtaken by irritation. “This isn't the time for a happy reunion,” he then hastily added and tried to free his arm from the grasp.

“Not 'ser', exactly,” his captor gave back, only tightening the grip on Thoros' arm. “This isn't the time to explain either, you have to trust me on this, so I didn't risk my neck to no avail,” he continued before Thoros had a chance to protest. He nodded to the bulk of upset people gathered at the starting position, though Thoros' eyes still searched for Beric in vain. All he could make out was Ser Aydan's towering frame among the crowd, and a few steps behind him the golden hair of Lady Symone.

“This was not an accident.” Danyal let go of the arm now, his words were enough to keep Thoros from running off. “His opponent isn't a clumsy beginner.”

“Are you saying this man killed the horse on purpose?” Thoros turned back to Danyal, staring at him in disbelief and confusion. “Why would he do that? Nobody even knows who that lad is! Why would he deliberately do that and risk being excluded from the tourney?”

“Like I said, this isn't the time to explain,” Danyal replied, then furtively glanced around in all directions. “I can't be seen here, too many Westermen swarming around for my...” His eyes got wide as he looked back to the lists. “Get Beric off that fucking horse!” Thoros swirled around and now he spotted Beric, gesturing for his lance and shield from the back of Ser Aydan's white horse. “Go! The checkered lad will just try again!” Danyal pushed Thoros in that direction. “I'll wait over there, behind the trees, I'll explain later!”

For a heartbeat, Thoros froze, too perplexed to make sense of what he had heard. Then he saw the crowd make way, people stepped back to let Beric through to the starting position. And Thoros ran like he never ran before in his life, pushed spectators out of his way, shouting to Beric, telling people to stop him, but he was too far away to be understood. In his daze, Thoros didn't think twice when he saw a horse, unsaddled and unguarded, standing outside the last pavilion on the field. He tore the rope holding it off the pole, jumped onto its back and gave spurs, directing his mount to charge toward the list.

 

The herald had almost finished his announcement when Thoros reached the list and blocked Beric's way with his borrowed horse. “Run to Robert!” Thoros shouted to Leiff. “Tell him to disqualify both, I'll tell him why later!”

“What are you doing? Are you insane?” Ser Aydan's horse chomped at the bit and its rider sounded just as impatient and angry. “I'm not yielding just because I hit my shoulder a little! Get out of the way!”

Thoros shot a glance down to Leiff. He hesitated and looked back and forth between him and Beric, but when Thoros drew his sword, Leiff gave him a quick nod, ducked under the fence to cross the list and ran toward the king's chair. The spectators collectively held their breath, all eyes rested on the sword in Thoros' hand. He had no idea what he should do with the weapon, it was just an instinct, an attempt at lending weight to his words. Beric held the lance and his shield, but even if he dropped either and drew his blade instead, this would be a more than unbalanced sword fight. Thoros had years of experience in melees on his side, but he didn't wear any armor or carry a shield, nor was his horse trained for combat.

Beric didn't trade the lance for his sword. He just opened the visor of his helmet and glared at Thoros. “You can't be this drunk,” he noted, his voice reproachful and annoyed. “Let me finish this and we'll talk about whatever bothers you later.”

“I've never been more sober since the day I was born,” Thoros firmly replied and shook his head. “You either get off that horse by yourself or I'll knock you down, but you won't fight this tilt. Your choice.”

For a long, breathless moment they stared at each other, neither making a move, even the horses stood still and the tourney ground lay in perfect silence.

Maybe it was foolish to trust Danyal, Thoros thought. After all, it had been obvious enough that the man was a scoundrel when they had met on Blacktyde, almost two years ago. Maybe Beric was right, maybe taking the warning at face value was something only a drunk dimwit would do. Maybe what had happened was a coincidence caused by a lack of experience. A honest mistake, albeit one with dangerous consequences, that a dishonest scumbag framed as foul play for his own petty amusement. Maybe Beric was rightfully upset, maybe the fall hadn't been as bad as people claimed, maybe Thoros' interference cost him the chance at his biggest victory to date. The thoughts tumbled through Thoros' mind like leaves in a storm, but something told him he was doing the right thing nonetheless.

Beric was about to break the silence, but the herald got there before him. “Both contestants are barred from the joust!” he announced and a roar of amazement went through the crowd. “Neither will advance, though they will be allowed to settle this during the melee tomorrow!”

Beric's eyes narrowed and if looks could kill, Thoros would have dropped dead off his horse. Without a word, Beric turned the horse around and rode off, leaving Thoros behind on the list, sword still in hand, not moving an inch. The herald's announcement had just taken a weight the size of Casterly Rock off Thoros' mind and it took a moment before he exhaled in relief and sheathed his sword. Danyal better had a good explanation for this, Thoros thought when he followed Beric off the list. If this was a prank or the result of an unfounded accusation, neither Beric nor Robert would take kindly to it.

 

“The king wants to speak to you right after the final tilt for today,” Leiff informed Thoros while helping Beric out of his armor. “He did as you asked so the joust could continue. He said he knew you wouldn't stop interfering unless he obliged, but he demands, and I quote, a 'fucking good reason for this foolery'.”

“As do I,” Beric added through gritted teeth and shot Thoros a glare from the depths of the Seven Hells, all taken together. “I didn't train with the Kingsguard to be disqualified in the second round of the biggest tourney in years, for no fault of my own.”

“You'll get your reason,” Thoros replied, hoping he'd get one that would explain all of this himself. He drew his sword and gave it to Anguy who just stared at him in confusion, but took it. “I'll be right back,” Thoros continued. “Be wary of strangers so long, especially of those wearing checkers. Wait in the tent for me and it will all make sense.” _I hope_ , he added in thought, then he went toward the group of huge oak trees beyond the sea of pavilions and tents.

 

﴾ _____________________________________________________________________________________ ﴿

 

“Ser Danyal?”

Beric's expression shifted from annoyance and anger to irritation when he stepped through the curtain of his pavilion and saw the hooded man sitting next to Thoros on a bench.

“Just Danyal. I'm not a knight, never been one, ” Danyal forthrightly replied. “Never going to be one, I suppose” he added when he looked up with a wry smile. “Not Westerling either, not even a Westerman, as a matter of fact. Called Sisterton my home once, but that was a long time ago.”

“And how does any of that relate to you setting Thoros up to interfere with the tourney?” Beric waited for an answer in the middle of the pavilion, Anguy next to him like a guard who held a sword for the first time in his life and didn't let that diminish his determination at performing his duty. Leiff stored the armor away, but he had a hand on his dagger and watched the unexpected visitor from the corner of his eye.

“I'm just being honest,” Danyal gave back. “Can't claim that's what I do for a living, but this time it works in your favor that I tend to take some liberties with the truth.”

This answer didn't make Beric any less skeptical, but his curiosity was clearly piqued, if only enough to not call the guards and have Danyal thrown out of his tent. “And I can't claim it surprises me,” he dryly said. “Your shield was one sea shell short of passing as a knight of House Westerling, if I remember correctly.”

Danyal shrugged, apparently it didn't bother him in the slightest that Beric called him out as a fraud. “As if the Ironborn paid attention. They never questioned my 'squire' either and the boy doesn't know a thing about knighthood.” He laughed to himself and appraisingly regarded Beric. “He's not even a 'boy', just looks young for his age. Timoth was nineteen or twenty when you met him. And as you probably guessed by now, he's not a poor, honest sod who fell for my act. He's a cutpurse from Lannisport who teams up with me once a year to fill our pockets while emptying those of dead drunk raiders.”

“So your interference with the joust was part of some scheme then?” Anguy concluded and now lowered the sword. “You stirred up trouble in hopes of inspiring higher bets and planned stealing the bookmaker's purse when everyone was distracted?”

“Not a bad idea, but no, that's not it.” Danyal smirked and eyed a bottle of wine on a nearby table. “I shouldn't even be near the tourney grounds. The entire event was meant to be my distraction. A big tourney like this lures half the realms to the city and that makes every half-decent inn easy pickings for me. People stay at the tourney grounds late into the night and leave their valuables unattended in the meantime.” He shot Thoros a brief smile when he saw him take the bottle and look around for cups, then turned back to Anguy and Beric. “The city guards are looking for me in Lannisport. As it turned out the jewelry I happened upon there a few weeks ago was more valuable than I expected. The sudden disappearance of it drew more attention than I needed, so I decided it was time to leave the Western coast.” He took the cup Thoros had poured him and emptied it in one go. “The tourney made King's Landing a good choice, I thought, so I came here to scout out the most lucrative targets and maybe find myself an extra pair of hands for the job.”

Thoros wordlessly filled the cup again and Anguy used the pause when Danyal drank to voice his newest conclusion. “You found a target who pays no attention to his belongings. You want him to win the joust, so you can steal the purse and Beric got in the way of your plans.”

Again, Danyal shook his head and quietly laughed. “If it was a smaller tourney, perhaps that would work,” he said. “But not here, not with names like Lannister, Swann, Selmy or Clegane on the list. Anyone who stands a chance at making the finals is too well guarded. I wouldn't take the risk and try to steal from any of them.” He sipped from his wine and looked back to Beric. “The risk I took was coming here, despite the many attendees from the Westerlands who might recognize me and point me out to the guards. And I didn't do it to further malicious plans, but because I wanted to do the right thing for once in my life. Does the name Allon Cadwell mean anything to you? Burly fellow, terrible taste, big mouth?”

Beric looked puzzled now, but he slowly nodded. “Aye, I know him, if only in passing. I last saw him at a wedding of House Frey. We had a small altercation on the way there and that didn't end too well for him. We just ignored one another during the celebration, but I could tell he was...” He paused and furrowed his brow, exchanged a quick glance with Thoros, then turned back to Danyal. “Are you saying he is behind all this? Did he coerce you into...”

“No.” Danyal firmly cut Beric off and took another sip from his cup. “I'm not the type who is coerced into anything by anyone, especially not by dimwitted brutes.” He drank again, but held eye contact with Beric, silently telling him to not interrupt. “I saw him last night; a man dressed like a whore from the Street of Silk stands out like a sore thumb in a Flea Bottom tavern. It's not a place fancy knights frequent, but that halfwit apparently thought nobody would recognize him in the slums.”

“You give him too much credit,” Thoros mumbled into his cup. “Ser Allon isn't someone who 'thinks' about consequences of his actions that much.”

“Clearly, he doesn't.” Danyal poured down his wine and shamelessly held out the cup to Thoros for another refill. “He spoke loud enough to be heard on my table, and what I overheard is the reason why I came here.”

Beric shot a skeptical glance to the half-empty bottle, but he gave Thoros a slight nod. “Go on,” he said, both to him and to Danyal.

“Checkercloak isn't your average hedge knight,” Danyal continued. “I didn't catch his name, but I got the gist of the discussion. Your Ser Allon has some dirt on the lad, there was talk of a debt owed and they mentioned money. Your name came up as well, and the longer I listened the clearer their intentions became. They shook hands at some point, sealing a deal, then Ser Allon got up and left the tavern. 'Two thousand if crippled, five thousand if dead', those were the last word he muttered. 'Five thousand it is', Checkers replied and he grinned, then sat back down and ordered a new round for his cronies.”

Beric, Anguy and Leiff stared at him, struggling for words. Thoros, on the other hand, had heard this part before and quietly nodded while pouring wine in Danyal's cup. Beric was the first to make an attempt at saying something, but all he got out was one lone, dumbfounded word. “Why?”

Danyal shrugged and toasted to Thoros, then drank a sip. “Guess your 'small altercation' bruised his ego more than you thought,” he gave back. “Never underestimate a short-tempered brute with too rich parents, that's probably the lesson you can take away from all this. That's all I can tell you, I don't...”

“No, I mean...” Beric hadn't completely gathered himself yet, but Danyal waited and let him speak. “Why did you risk being discovered by guards to warn me?” Beric finished.

Again, Danyal shrugged. “Like I said, figured it was the right thing to do.” He nonchalantly sipped from the wine. When nobody spoke, but the expressions around him demanded further elaboration, Danyal continued. “You're not an idiot,” he said, nodding to Beric. “You knew I wasn't a knight the moment we met. Yet you didn't call out my charade, you didn't look down on me or act like my friends and I were beneath you. Men like Ser Allon do. They let me know I'm scum in their eyes any chance they get and revel in glee. Rub their high birth in my face and act as if being born into splendor and wealth is a choice I just failed to make.” He scoffed and leaned back, then emptied his cup. “Sometimes men like them need a reminder that deep down, under all their fancy robes and illustrious titles, they are even worse than scoundrels like me. I may not be a knight, but thieves know a thing or two about honor as well.”

 

Beric was about to answer when the curtain opened and the head of Lancel Lannister peeked inside. “His Grace demands Thoros speaks to him, _now_ ,” he said after looking around, trying to sound as stern as a boy could in a tent full of more seasoned fighters.

“Wait outside.” Thoros got up and made a step toward Lancel. “I'll be there in a moment.”

Beric turned around and waited for the king's squire to leave, then he addressed Danyal over his shoulder. “Ever killed someone in your line of work? Women or children, perhaps, who had too many possessions?” The question sounded casual, as if he made small talk, leaving Thoros, Anguy and Leiff puzzled and apprehensive.

“I'm a thief and a liar, I admit that, but I'm certainly not a murderous villain!” Danyal's answer came promptly, yet there was a distinct lack of indignation in his voice. Beric waited, calm, as if he had all the time in the world to ponder his situation. “I killed one man and badly injured another,” Danyal said after a short silence. “They were former partners who thought they could get away with screwing me over. I was only defending myself, they attacked first.”

Beric nodded to himself, still facing the curtain, and seemed to think about what he had heard. “Do you still have those jewels you stole?” he then asked, his voice now sounding strangely determined.

“I don't have them on me,” Danyal replied after brief hesitation. “I hid everything in a safe spot after I left Lannisport, in a small cavern in the mountains by the Gold Road. Would have been too big a risk if I had tried to sell the gems, with all the attention their disappearance received and the city guard's bounty hovering over my head.” He got up from the bench and put his empty cup on the table. “I can lead you there, if that's what you want. Their value in coins exceeds the prize of the joust. And the bounty.”

“That is indeed what I want,” Beric gave back. “But first, we'll accompany Thoros and speak to the king.”

Danyal stared at his back as if trying to pierce it and his face betrayed the thought that Beric had lost his mind. Before he could voice his protest, however, Anguy gave the sword in his hand a long, serious look, Leiff's hand hovered over the hilt of his dagger and Thoros gave Danyal a push toward the curtain.

 

﴾ _____________________________________________________________________________________ ﴿

 

“The audacity!” His Grace roared with anger as he paced up and down in his pavilion, glaring at Thoros once he had finished recounting what led to the day's strange events. “That coward dares disturb my tourney over his petty quarrel?” He stopped in front of Thoros and furtively narrowed his eyes. “Where is that 'Ser' Allon now? I want him brought here, right now. That pompous swine has sullied the honor of knighthood long enough.” He swirled around, splashing wine from his horn on the floor, and turned to his guards. “Find that sorry excuse of a man! I'll strip him of lands and titles for annoying his king!”

Ser Jaime and Ser Barristan exchanged a brief glance, then the latter stepped forward and cleared his throat. “Your Grace, Ser Allon Cadwell is not here,” Ser Barristan calmly informed his king. “He caused a disturbance in Lannisport when he fled from Ser Gregor Clegane before their tilt. You had him banned from attending your tourneys and none of the guards reported seeing him near the grounds this year.”

The king furrowed his brow in thought, then the memory reemerged and his expression shifted back to anger. “Search the city then!” he thundered after a moment of silence. “What kind of king would I be if I let some craven churl get away with such behavior?”

“Your Grace?” Danyal stepped forward, eyes respectfully lowered, and King Robert immediately spun around on his heel. “They won't find him,” Danyal said before the king could inquire. “During the conversation I overheard, he told his crony that he had booked passage on a ship that would leave the next day. They neither mentioned the name nor the destination, only that they would meet up 'there' once the sellsword's task was completed in order to handle the payment.”

“Does his cowardice know no bounds?” The king was frothing and at the same time he seemed disappointed. He deeply sighed and directed his glare back at his guards. “Tell the Gold Cloaks to keep their eyes open at the harbor. If this creature sets foot on my soil again, I want to know it.” After another sigh, he waved his squire over and gestured to a carafe on a table with his drinking horn. “And so another villain escapes the grasp of my power, sailing to eastern shores, unscathed,” he muttered under his breath, paced a few steps and stopped in front of Beric. “What good does power do if you cannot wield it?”

“Maybe you can wield it in another way, Your Grace,” Beric cautiously replied. “If I may ask a favor, one only a king can grant?”

The king sighed once more, resignation and frustration in his eyes. “What do you want?” he asked. “My crown? My title? Take it! Take it all! I've been waiting for years to find a fool who'd willingly trade his place for mine!”

“Not today, Your Grace,” Beric politely declined the offer the king probably only made half in jest. “What I ask of you is to pardon this man.” He glanced to Danyal and the king's eyes wandered in the same direction. “He made a confession and offered to return the stolen jewels to their rightful owner.”

Thoros couldn't help but admire Danyal's composure while they listened to Beric's claim. He kept a straight face and earnestly nodded, though he had certainly thought of sharing the spoils, not giving them back without any payment when he confessed.

“A reward for going out of his way to warn you,” King Robert noted, still thoughtful, but intrigued by the proposal. “That's what you have in mind?”

“It is,” Beric gave back with a firm nod, then conjured up bewildered looks when he continued. “And I don't think I could knight a man in good conscience as long as he has a bounty on his head.”

For a long moment, nobody spoke, then the king's roaring laughter drove out the lingering silence. “And Renly said I 'need' him to take care of legal matters!” he snorted. “I like a good, clear cut case such as this!”

It was not the answer Beric had expected, in fact the king's amusement was no answer at all. “Your Grace, Danyal chose honor over criminal pursuits today,” he firmly added. “He deserves a chance at redemption. His choice saved my life, or my well-being at least, and I feel compelled to repay this debt. You have my word that I will report any missteps or attempts to stray from the honorable path and...”

The king cut him off with a vague wave of his hand and sipped from his horn while appraisingly regarding Danyal. “I'll grant your wish, Lightning Lord,” he then turned back to Beric. “Granting wishes, a power reserved for kings and fucking fairies!” He let out a guffaw, then he was serious again all of a sudden. “But first, he'll pay his debt owed to the goldsmith in Lannisport.” After a swig from his horn, he turned around and looked at Ser Jaime. “Take some Gold Cloaks and accompany this man down the Gold Road. Once the loot is recovered, return it to Lannisport and send word to me when the smith holds the gemstones in his hands.”

 

﴾ _____________________________________________________________________________________ ﴿

 

Thoros fluffed up a cushion, pulled the blanket up, then his hand returned to Beric's head. His fingers ran through the hair, covertly feeling for bumps or bruises, then casually wandered down, disguising the search for fractures or signs of injuries on Beric's neck as a lazy massage. “You really had me worried today,” he quietly said, relieved his examination came up empty so far.

“I didn't do it on purpose,” Beric mumbled into the pillow and shook the blanket off again. “And if I thought I was injured, I'd tell you.” The hand on his back froze in motion, resting between the shoulder blades instead of tracing further down the spine. Beric snickered at the quiet confirmation of his suspicion and opened one eye to look over to Thoros. “But there's a knot on my left shoulder that's been pestering me for two or three days. Not that it would be in the way of my vengeance when I find the bastard who took me out of the tourney, but I'd feel better if...”

“No, it wouldn't,” Thoros cut him off. “But you better leave the vengeance to the guards. Robert is miffed enough that he can't punish Ser Allon again. He's had it in for the man since the Lannisport tourney, even if his anger sometimes escapes him.” His hand moved to Beric's shoulder and began searching the knot. “You're lucky the king has your back in this matter, but I recommend letting him handle the situation his way.” Beric took a deep breath and was about to answer, but Thoros ignored it and just continued. “I know, 'annoying the king' is a minor offense that pales in comparison to an attempt on your life. But you didn't take Robert up on his offer, and he's still the one wearing the crown. He had Danyal describe the sellsword's face to the Gold Cloaks and gave specific instructions what should be done if they spot the man.” Beric quietly groaned, but it was a sign Thoros had found the pesky knot, not a reaction to the words of advice. “I know it feels like you're letting it slide,” Thoros added. “But I can promise that scoundrel won't bother my fledgling anymore once they caught him.”

Hearing that, Beric opened one eye again and shot Thoros an amused, incredulous look. “Now that's a name I haven't heard in a long time,” he said. “The fall must have looked even worse than it felt if it scared you back into old mother hen habits.”

“You may have outgrown your fluffy feathers,” Thoros gave back and dug his fingers deeper into the sore shoulder. “But I guess I'm just too old to change my ways.”


	37. Ours Is The Fury

“Are you sure you're doing the right thing there?” Thoros asked as they watched Danyal ride off with Ser Jaime and a group of six Gold Cloaks. “What he said in front of the king is one thing, but what he really thinks is another. If another stash of jewels goes missing you'll regret bestowing knighthood upon a thief.” He paused and regarded Beric appraisingly. “You still have those intentions, do you?”

Beric nodded, his gaze following the riders as they got smaller and smaller in the distance. “I do,” he gave back. “It's a risk and you're right, I might regret it. He took a risk for me, too, so I guess it's just fair.”

“And a pardon for his crimes isn't reward enough for what he did?” Thoros took a swig from his cup, then shot a glance to the lists over his shoulder to see if the herald was taking position to announce the next tilt of the semifinal. “A clean slate lets him start over without putting your good reputation at risk.”

“Aye, it would.” Beric took the cup from Thoros' hand, drank a sip, then returned it. “But it wouldn't feel right to just leave it at that. He warned me to remind men like Ser Allon that wealth and high birth isn't a choice. Maybe I need a reminder as well, so I won't forget that honor is. Nobody is born with it or just given it along with a title. It's solely a matter of the choices one makes.” The horses had disappeared on the western horizon and Beric turned to Thoros once they were out of sight. “Danyal made more than one choice yesterday. He could have killed the man in a dark alley in Flea Bottom if his only goal was saving my life. He could have delivered his warning and gone back to rob taverns. But he didn't run back to his life of crime. He stayed and came clean, without the promise of any reward. Those aren't the actions of a man who'll disregard a true chance at redemption.”

“Can't argue with that,” Thoros gave back and raised the cup to his lips just to find it empty. “After all, I followed my own hunch when I put faith in his warning.” He turned around when he heard Leiff call out from the fence by the lists; the herald had finally taken his position in front of the king's chair. “Looks like they scraped the remains of Clegane's latest casualty together,” Thoros said with a sigh. “We should get some more wine before the tilt, so we can make a toast to Loras' better luck.”

“He defeated the Mountain before,” Beric replied when they walked toward the nearest merchant. The booths were not under siege at the moment, the audience had gathered near the lists in breathless anticipation for the second tilt of the semifinal instead. “He seemed confident that he can repeat his victory from Lannisport and I see no reason to doubt him.”

Thoros ordered two cups of wine and turned to Beric while he waited for the merchant to fill them. “Neither do I,” he said. “Loras made quite an impression so far. Three Kingsguards defeated, that's bound to draw Robert's attention.” He took the purse off his belt to pay for the wine, then handed one cup to Beric. “Neither Ser Mandon nor Ser Arys go easy on opponents. And Ser Meryn...” He paused and put the purse back in its place. “Well, at least he's trying.”

“To Loras' victory then.” Beric raised the cup and waited for Thoros to join the toast.

“To Loras' victory and the good payouts for my wagers on him,” Thoros replied with a roguish smile, but before the cups touched, a loud roar went through the crowd and both he and Beric turned on their heels. “Sweet Lord!” Thoros gasped when he spotted Loras, enthroned on his white mare, towering over the cheering spectators. “He unseated Gregor fucking Clegane in the first pass?” He exchanged an incredulous glance with Beric, then both poured down their wine in one go, slammed the cups back on the counter and ran toward the list as if they had been given a silent command to invade a hostile nation.

 

When they had shouldered their way to the fence, somewhere near where they had seen Leiff and Anguy, they found the evidence that the impossible had just happened a few feet away in the sand. The Mountain That Rides rode no longer, he and his horse were just getting up from a deep fall. While the horse seemed fidgety, if a bit shaken, its rider looked dumbfounded and angry at once. Thoros tried to remember when the giant had last been unseated. Though he was fairly certain it had happened once before, he couldn't recall if it had been accomplished by Ser Barristan or Ser Jaime. What he knew without doubt was that it had been a long time ago and nobody had even come close to repeating this feat ever since. The odds had slightly favored Loras, but this kind of victory had come completely unexpected.

There were only two people who didn't seem surprised at this outcome and one of them was Loras himself. He had removed his helmet and smiled at the cheering crowd, basking in their admiration as he slowly rode along the fence toward the king.

The second one stood behind the chair of Prince Joffrey. Sandor Clegane, who had defeated Ser Jaime an hour ago, looked neither surprised nor happy about facing Loras in the finale. His scarred face barely betrayed any emotion, save a spark of resignation and slight annoyance. Neither was directed at Loras though. The Hound ignored him and his victory celebration, instead he glared at his brother as if he resented him for losing the bout. Thoros recognized that look even from the distance, he had seen it up close during past tourneys. It didn't matter which Clegane lost a bout, the Hound's reaction was always the same. A silent snarl, a sigh of annoyance, a lifetime's hatred sparkling in his good, right eye. Then the stoic demeanor returned and buried the anger deep inside. It didn't fool anyone at court though. Everyone knew the Hound was burning to meet his brother in battle, but the two dogs served the same master and he didn't care to see his loyal beasts fight. Over the years, Sandor Clegane's patience had turned into resignation and gallows laughter. Loras' victory didn't surprise him, he didn't expect any better from the gods or his luck. Getting his wish here and now, in the finale of the realms' biggest tourney, had never been a real possibility to him.

Apparently, the Mountain disagreed with that notion. Without any warning, he drew his greatsword, charged at his fidgety horse and beheaded it with one clean, strong cut. The audience murmured in shock and confusion, but Gregor Clegane gave them no time to think. With a loud, angry growl, he charged at Loras, and the force of the blow threw him off his mare. Only the panicked horse fleeing bought Loras the brief moment he needed to roll out of the bloody blade's way. The Mountain pursued, raising his enormous sword again, stomping after his moving target. And in an instant, the statue of Sandor Clegane woke back to life behind the chair of the prince. The Hound jumped down from the podium, sword drawn, and as soon as his feet touched the sand, he charged at his brother. Loras used the distraction to get away from the two furious giants who had long forgotten he had even been there as steel clanked against steel. There was breathless silence among the spectators, staring wide-eyed at the fight many had never expected to see.

“Enough!”

The king's voice thundered over the growls of the Clegane brothers, loud enough to be heard beyond the King's Gate. One word was enough to end the unexpected spectacle. The Mountain stepped back, arms spread, yet not dropping his sword, and slowly walked backwards toward the fence. People stumbled and shoved, trying to get out of his way, opening a path for the giant in hopes of being spared from his wrath. The Hound paid no attention to his brother's exit. He had sheathed his sword and knelt with lowered head, awaiting the king's instructions. Maybe, Thoros thought, there was still a glimpse of hope hidden somewhere, a silent prayer to the Stranger that the king would order him to pursue. But no such thing happened. Robert sighed loudly and vaguely gestured to the corpse of Ser Gregor's horse. “Have it cleaned up,” he told two guards and sat back down on his chair. “And be quick! Let us just get over with this cursed tourney before yet another fool decides to dishonor himself.”

The audience murmured, disappointed that the duel had ended without declaring a winner and at the same time annoyed about another delay. People around Thoros and Beric were about to leave their spots by the fence and return to the merchant area, but just before anyone took a step in that direction, curious heads turned back to the list. Loras was on his feet and he confidently walked toward his still kneeling savior.

“You saved my life, ser,” Thoros heard him say and he could vividly imagine the Hound's answer. Unlike Loras, he didn't care if the crowd could hear him, but it wasn't a hard thing to guess what he said. 'I'm not a fucking knight, nor do I want to be one', perhaps. “But you acted with the honor of one,” Loras confirmed Thoros' educated suspicion. Again, the Hound's reply didn't reach Thoros' ears, but this time Loras apparently didn't listen either. He grabbed Clegane's arm and apparently confused by the sudden, bold move, the Hound got up from his knees and didn't resist when Loras raised his arm up even higher. “Your Grace,” Loras addressed the slightly puzzled king on his chair. “I forfeit the finale and beg you to declare Sandor Clegane the victor. May honor be restored to your tourney through his valor.”

The Hound just stared at him in utter bewilderment, not even trying to lower his arm. The audience shared the sentiment, the murmurs died down in anticipation for the king's decision and all eyes rested on the odd pair on the list. His Grace didn't make them wait. He arose from his chair, made a step toward Loras and Sandor Clegane and regarded them for only one short moment. “So be it!” he declared and raised his horn. “Give the purse to the dog!” He returned to his chair, took a swig from his wine and Thoros was certain the king added 'finally, this damned tourney is over' in his thoughts.

 

﴾ _____________________________________________________________________________________ ﴿

 

When Loras and Iagan returned to their pavilion, Beric was already waiting outside. Leiff, Thoros and Anguy simultaneously got up from a bench across the trail leading from the tourney grounds to the river, and all four of them stared at Loras with questioning eyes. For a man who had just forfeited his chance at winning the biggest tourney in years he looked surprisingly content. He ate strawberries from a small basket and an impish smile appeared on his lips when he nonchalantly stopped in front of his welcoming party. Instead of answering their unspoken question, he just pointedly put another strawberry in his mouth, then followed his squire into the tent.

For a moment, the quartet exchanged dumbfounded glances, then Beric opened the curtain and peeked inside. Iagan was about to begin cleaning the sand off Loras' sapphire-studded armor. Loras sat on a chair, feet on a table, and pondered a strawberry from his basket as if he saw this kind of fruit for the very first time. He had doubtlessly noticed his visitor, as the open curtain let the sun shine in his face, but he didn't react and just silently snickered to himself. Beric went closer and cleared his throat, but the strawberry apparently demanded Loras' full attention. Only when Leiff held the curtain open for Anguy and Thoros, Loras finally looked up.

“How much did you bet on me?” he addressed Thoros, as casual as if he expected nothing but small talk. “In the finale, I mean. I'll reimburse whatever you lost.” When he got no answer and Thoros just looked puzzled, Loras shrugged and offered the strawberry to him.

“Keep the coins.” Thoros took the fruit, but didn't eat it. “But how about explaining why you...”

“Charity,” Loras solemnly cut him off. “I wanted the Hound to have the purse. Forty-thousand golden dragons might just be enough to pay some warlock from Essos for a new face.” He snickered and leaned forward to reach the basket on the table. “Come to think, it's an act of charity that benefits both Clegane and the realms.”

“You can't be serious.” Beric skeptically regarded Loras' laborious effort and just before it bore fruit, he pulled the basket away, holding it hostage for a real answer.

“Solidarity,” Loras promptly declared. “If that bastard sellsword hadn't tried to kill you, it would have been us in the finale. That was the fight I wanted and if I can't have it I just won't fight at all.” He eyed the basket in Beric's hand, then looked up again with a roguish smile. “I defeated the Hound before, but not you. The only time we met on the list you came out as victor. That's a worthy challenge for a tourney this big.”

Beric released his hostage and put it back on the table, then pushed the basket closer to Loras. “That's very flattering,” he said. “Flattering, but not true.”

“Am I such a bad liar?” Loras sighed, took the basket and quietly laughed when Beric nodded. “Fine, I'll tell you the real reason then since you can't guess it. There's nothing left for me to prove on the lists. I defeated each Clegane twice now, in front of the king. Another victory wouldn't change his perception of me. If I want...” He broke off when a Gold Cloak stopped on the trail outside the pavilion, spotted Thoros and frantically gestured for him to come over.

“The melee will begin soon,” the man shouted. “His Grace reminds every participant that he is tired of disturbances and urges everyone to be well-prepared!”

“Right, you heard the man!” Anguy snickered and looked to Thoros. “No disturbances in the mayhem of two dozen fighters charging at each other!”

“I'll swing my flaming sword as orderly as I can,” Thoros assured him, then went outside and followed the Gold Cloak.

Loras took his feet off the table and got up from his chair. “If I want to be named to the Kingsguard, the king has to see more in me than just a great jouster. So I showed him humility and honor today. Maybe there's a chance Ser Barristan will put in a good word for me after that. If he suggests me as his successor, my father will overrule any other plans for my future. He'll gladly wait for his dream of a son in the Kingsguard to come true with that assurance. Even if it takes years, even if my grandmother objects.” He turned around and gestured to Iagan, still shining the armor. “There's time for that later,” he said. “Now we'll get some good wine and the best seats for the melee.”

 

﴾ _____________________________________________________________________________________ ﴿

 

Anguy's estimate had been modest. More than three dozens of fighters made the melee the biggest spectacle that King's Landing had seen during King Robert's reign. Among the sellswords and freeriders in plain armor, several notable contestants stood out. There was Lord Yohn Royce in his ancient bronze armor, embellished with runes to ward off bad luck, waiting next to no less than six knights of House Frey for the herald's signal. On the opposite side of the fenced arena, Ser Justin Massey and Ser Marq Piper were engaged in boastful banter while Ser Mandon Moore stoically ignored them, sitting still like a statue on the back of his fog-grey horse. Sandor Clegane, riding his black stallion Stranger, stood equally motionless next to bannerless sellswords who cautiously kept their distance from him. The Hound ironically shared that notion; it was certainly not a coincidence that he started from a position far from Thoros' and his blazing sword.

“Did you place my bets?” Loras asked when his squire returned to the bench with a tray of cups. Iagan nodded and began handing out the drinks, then stored the empty tray under his seat.

“Bets? Why would you place more than one?” Anguy laughed and shot a skeptical glance to Loras. “Thoros has no real competition down there.” Leiff and Beric nodded in silent agreement, but Loras shook his head.

“Aye, I did bet on Thoros,” he gave back with a smug smile. “And the same amount on Sandor Clegane.”

Beric had just raised the cup to his lips, but instead of drinking he quietly snickered into his ale. “A very knightly way of getting back at Thoros for his confusing wagers,” he noted before taking a sip.

“Every hound has his day and today, it might just be Clegane's,” Loras replied, his voice carrying utter conviction, though he didn't quite manage to keep a straight face. “And besides, I'm not wagering in hopes of filling my pockets,” he continued, now matter-of-factly. “If I wanted money I'd have knocked Clegane down myself. In the eyes of the gods, greed is sinful. That's why they disapprove of games of chance. If I learned anything from Renly it's that his brother has no such objections, but an appreciation for pranks and petty revenge.” He nonchalantly sipped from his wine and brushed a strand of hair over his shoulder. “If it paves my way into the Kingsguard, my silly amusement will be as knightly as it gets.”

Beric thought for a moment, then slowly looked over to Leiff. “If he puts it that way, it sounds rather knightly indeed,” he said and reached for his purse. “Hurry and match those bets. And put the same amount on Lord Royce for good measure.”

 

﴾ _____________________________________________________________________________________ ﴿

 

When Leiff returned from the bookmaker and gave the purse back to Beric, Anguy had stopped furtively regarding his knightly companions from the corner of his eye. Before the melee had started, he had been waiting for Beric to crack, stop acting like nothing noteworthy had happened and admit that this was a joke. Then the signal to charge had been given and the mayhem of the beginning battle drew his full attention. The Hound had unseated one of the nearby freeriders before he even had a change to raise his shield. By now, Clegane was engaged in a battle with two others near the barrier and easily kept the upper hand against both. Not far from this uneven fight, Ser Burton Crakehall dueled his nephew, Ser Lyle, the advantage shifting back and forth between them with each blow. Toward the middle of the arena, Patrek Mallister had formed a fragile alliance with two sellswords against an odd pair consisting of Lord Hubard Ramton and Ser Hobber Redwyne. But before either side decided what to make of their situation, Ser Mandon Moore charged into the group and saw two men unseated in the wake of his attack.

“That's the strangest melee I've ever seen, not counting the bar fight at Blacktyde,” Leiff noted when he sat down between Anguy and Beric again. “I expected Thoros to go after Clegane right away, but he hasn't even been near him since the battle began.”

“He might be saving the best for last,” Beric replied, though he didn't sound too convinced by his own theory. “It's also more crowded than usual. Maybe he just had no chance of getting through to the Hound.”

“No, Leiff is right,” Loras interjected. “Something is strange and it's not only Thoros.” He leaned closer to Beric and directed his gaze to Ser Preston Greenfield of the Kingsguard. “Look at that. The two Freys behind him are wide open to his attack, yet Ser Preston ignores them and chases a scrawny sellsword instead. And over there...” He pointed to a different corner of the arena. “Ser Mandon also went after the sellswords, despite Lord Ramton making a much better target. Clegane hasn't even tried to break away from the freeriders and Thoros has yet to engage with a prestigious opponent as well.”

“You think that's what the king meant by 'orderly' melee?” Beric pondered out loud. “That he gave orders to take out the less experienced fighters first and leave the renowned veterans for a worthy finale?”

Loras shrugged and gave his cup to Iagan for another refill. “Wouldn't surprise me,” he said. “It would sure make things more exciting if the big fish get rid of the bycatch before they battle it out.”

 

﴾ _____________________________________________________________________________________ ﴿

 

Thoros' shield bashed against the sellsword's battered suit of armor, then the opponent hit the sand with a loud thud. _Another one down, roughly thirty to go_ , Thoros thought, glancing down to the man he had just unseated; a burly, flax-haired lad, so fat his fleeing horse almost tripped over him. The flaming sword once more did its duty and granted its wielder a moment to breathe; even some of the well-trained warhorses were spooked enough by the fire and kept their distance. It wouldn't last long, of course, not in the heat of the battle. Rather sooner than later someone would come at him, past champions made popular targets for veterans and hot-headed newcomers alike.

Thoros looked around, surveying the situation to decide who to engage next. Ahead of him, a good distance away, Ser Burton Crakehall and his nephew had ceased fighting each other and instead teamed up against Ser Hosteen Frey. He was flanked by Ser Forley Prester, swinging a flail, though it was unclear who he was targeting with it. There were two freeriders near that group, circling Marq Piper, but one of them was much too tall to match the Gold Cloaks' description and the other one was both too thin and too short. Still, it might be best to take the two of them out right now, if only to thin out the ranks and get rid of distractions. A similar case could be made for the sellsword trying to approach the Strongboar, Lyle Crakehall, from behind. The man clearly lay in wait for a chance at going around the duel between Bronze Yohn and Lord Hubard Ramton, and he had the right build.

Just before Thoros made his choice, a third option presented itself to his left. Two bannerless riders had unseated Ser Hobber Redwyne and began chasing his previous ally by chance, Ser Emmon Frey. This was a chance too good to pass up, Thoros decided. Both sellswords fit the vague description and Ser Emmon would be neither help nor hindrance. If anything, this was an opportunity of taking three out with one blow. Thoros directed his horse toward the trio, but halfway there, he saw Ser Mandon Moore emerge on the other side of the targets. For a brief moment, their eyes met across the other fighters, a silent question lingered between them, then both answered it with an impalpable shake of the head. It was obvious they had both spotted the same sellswords and had the same plan, just as there was no doubt that either of them would be enough to deal with these men. Ser Mandon was closer, he'd reach them first, but Thoros wasn't willing to let this chance go. He glared intently at the sellsword with the blackened armor, signaling he expected Ser Mandon to charge at the other, but no answer came. Ser Mandon's lifeless fish eyes didn't give away if he agreed or objected, he simply raised his sword and gave spurs. _Fuck it_ , Thoros thought. The king had given his orders, a White Cloak would obey.

He was right about his assessment. When Thoros' sword set the black sellsword's shield ablaze, Ser Mandon was already engaged in battle with the second target and Emmon Frey. The former foes, now teamed up against this force of nature, gave him more of a fight than Thoros got. His opponent's horse balked at the fiery sword and the burning shield on the ground, almost threw off its rider, and it didn't take much to unseat the man after that. He almost flew over the fence into the cheering crowd, and only hit the sand in front of the barrier by pure chance. Thoros glanced down, trying to find any hints at the identity of his fallen rival; the stature matched the description, but that was hardly enough. From the corner of his eye, he saw Ser Mandon pause and look over as well, then return to his pursuit of the sellsword and Emmon Frey. The sellsword angrily tore off his helmet and threw it in Thoros' direction, revealing hair dull and light brown like dried driftwood and a much too young face with a thin beard of the same color.

Thoros' gaze followed Ser Mandon and his opponents. The two men stood no chance against a White Cloak, but they didn't make things easy for him either. While Ser Mandon aimed for the nimble sellsword, Emmon Frey's impertinence and sword strikes got in his way. Thoros considered interfering and getting over with it when he spotted Ser Preston Greenwood on the opposite side of the arena. Despite being surrounded by prestigious opponents, he tried to break away from the fight and get to the middle of the fenced pit. Immediately, Thoros turned his horse around and saw what had caught Ser Preston's attention.

Lyle Crakehall wasn't called Strongboar for no reason. He had apparently eliminated Lord Ramton as well as his uncle, and the lurking sellsword had sensed his chance when the Strongboar turned his attentions to Yohn Royce. It hadn't turned out well for the sellsword, though he was still in the fight. A bash from Ser Lyle's shield hadn't unseated him, but cost him his helmet and nearly his balance. Considering the circumstances and his foolish plan, the man was lucky that the Strongboar ignored him like an ox not bothered by pesky flies and kept swinging his flail at Lord Royce. But the loss of the helmet had painted an enormous target on the sellsword's back nonetheless. He had been smart enough to get rid of his checkered cloak after the joust, and found a new horse before the Gold Cloaks had ensured his participation in the melee. But he fit Danyal's description, nothing concealed his face anymore and he realized too late that the king's champions had recognized their target.

Across the arena, Thoros saw Sandor Clegane thrust away his current opponent, a stout man-at-arms wielding a mace and wearing the colors of House Serrett. Martyn Rivers, a Frey bastard, was brazen enough to make an attempt at blocking the Hound's way and got a shield bash straight to the chest as reward. No doubt, Clegane had spotted the sellsword as well and nobody would stand between a loyal beast and his master's orders.

Thoros didn't hesitate for even one heartbeat and gave spurs. Clegane approached from roughly the same distance, it was either one's game to get there first. The flaming sword wouldn't spook Stranger, this horse was well-trained and fearless, but the same couldn't quite be said for its rider. It was a small chance, but Thoros took it, raised his sword and pointed it straight at Clegane.

If there was any reaction to the threatening fire, the Hound didn't let on and continued his way undeterred. He reached the sellsword just one sword length before Thoros and immediately attacked, almost smashing the dumbfounded man's shield with the first blow of his sword. Clegane's vicious assault and the instinctive defense left the man's right wide open, and Thoros didn't let this chance pass. He thrust his sword through the man's neck, flames turned into blood as the blade went through flesh and bone, delivering the king's justice in one swift motion.

The shield arm dropped like a wet sack of stones, and Thoros now stared at the snarling helmet of Sandor Clegane. Between them, the sellsword slumped down in the saddle as Thoros pulled out the sword, the remaining flames setting the dead man's dark hair ablaze in the process. For one breathless moment, the tourney grounds seemed perfectly silent, as if time had stopped along with the sellsword's heart. Then Clegane raised his shield, bashed the lifeless man off the horse with one shattering blow, the now riderless mount fled and the fight was back on.

 

﴾ _____________________________________________________________________________________ ﴿

 

“ _Now_ they go at each other?” Anguy leaned forward for a better view on the remaining combatants. “There are still some dregs left, why are they ignoring them all of a sudden?”

He had a point with this observation. The course the battle had changed considerably right after the nameless rider's elimination from both the melee and the world of the living. The current duels looked much more familiar now. Thoros had reignited his sword and chased Clegane, flanked by the remaining freeriders left and right. Lord Royce and Ser Lyle had received company and turned their duel into a three-way with Ser Mandon Moore, who had joined them after his sellsword opponent and Ser Emmon had been unseated. Ser Preston no longer tried to break free from the men besieging him, though his distraction had cost him the advantage against Ser Danwell Frey.

“Most of them are gone though,” Loras gave back. He was about to add something else, but then his gaze followed Beric's to the ground of the arena and the corpse. Small, green flames still danced in the remains of his hair, but the face had been untouched and seemed to stare in their direction. “That's...” Loras began, then broke off when Beric quietly nodded with the same bewildered look on his face.

 

﴾ _____________________________________________________________________________________ ﴿

 

“We bet on Clegane, too, you know?” Beric informed Thoros on the way to the king's table, clearly expecting a baffled reaction. Instead of giving one, Thoros just sighed and regarded him like a father uncertain about his wayward son's future.

“You finally dare offending the gods with wagers and the first thing you do is put money on Sandor Clegane?” He chuckled when Beric quietly grumbled, then put an arm around his shoulder. “Look, I'm glad your friend has a good influence on you,” he added in an amicable, fatherly tone and nodded to Loras. “But I really thought I had taught you better than that. Don't bet on Clegane if there's fire nearby.”

King Robert was in high spirits when the group reached the table and his mood visibly improved even more when he spotted Thoros. “What a finale!” he roared, raising his horn and waving him closer. “You really had me worried for a moment about the Hound winning twice! Eats for two as it is and I'm glad for some friendly faces at the victors' table!” He shot a brief glare down the long table, to where Clegane hunched over a plate with stuffed quails and sliced bacon and ignored his surroundings as best as he could. “Come,” the king turned back to Thoros with an inviting gesture toward the seats across from his chair. “Let us celebrate your victory!” His gaze wandered to Loras who had stayed one step behind his companions, appraisingly pondered him for a moment, then nodded to an unoccupied chair. “You may have yielded, Tyrell,” he sternly noted, then broke out in laughter. “But you still saved me from two ravenous dogs raiding my feast!” As Loras sat down, the king turned to Beric and thoughtfully regarded him instead. “What troubles my heir presumptive? Still sour about being removed from the lists by that odd twist of fate?”

“A little,” Beric cautiously admitted and sat down on his chair, almost ducking under the arm of a servant, immediately rushing over to the new arrivals to offer a selection of exquisite wines, beers and ales. Beric had been about to say more, but the tray suddenly appearing before him had thrown him off.

The king didn't wait for more of an answer. He toasted to the group while they picked their beverages, then his eyes rested on Beric once more. “Lighten up, Lightning Lord! Chance throws the strangest things at us mortals. Sometimes they work against our plans, but on occasion, they also turn out in our favor. Lightning strikes the right enemy, thunder rolls over the right foe.”

 


	38. The Knave's New Clothes

After the buzz of the tourney King's Landing felt empty, almost abandoned and too quiet for such a big city. Even before the merchant booths had been dismantled and the banners had been taken down, people had saddled their horses, packed their belongings and headed South. If Renly's intention was to steal his brother's attention, it certainly worked just as he had planned. There had only been a few visitors from the Reach at the king's tourney, a fact Robert had noticed, but not acknowledged at all during the feast. The implication of the Reach's absence was obvious and he would rather have cut out his tongue than admit that it bothered him. Most of the Southern houses had been unwilling to travel this much in short succession and saw the wedding at Highgarden as the more important event. Tourneys in King's Landing were not a rarity. There'd be another and the incredible purses of this one were not enough to entice the wealthy elite. But Lord Tyrell only had one daughter and she'd only marry the Lord Paramount of the Stormlands once.

Anguy had left right after the tourney as well, traveling with Loras' party and hoping to make it back to Blackhaven in time. Though he had abstained from women and wine and this change of heart was still hard to fathom for Beric, Anguy had not renounced his fondness of gambling along with other vices. He was determined to win his bet against Lord Ossyn, the Pentoshi wine in his saddlebags was still untouched when he left. The one thing that didn't strike Beric as strange about this was the practicality of the wager on his father's part. The rare vintage was not meant for the stock in Blackhaven's cellars. Should Anguy succeed and resist the temptation, Lord Ossyn had a suitable gift for the bridal couple, along with Loras' approval and guarantee the wine would meet his sister's taste. Loras wasn't too thrilled about leaving the city so soon, but he was expected to be present for the arrival of House Vaith at Highgarden and grudgingly complied with his grandmother's wish.

 

“I feel bad for Loras,” Beric noted, looking to the yard where he and Loras had trained with the Kingsguard just before the tourney. Only a handful of guards sat outside the barracks, most on a break from their patrols through the city, just one was busy making repairs on a door. “He went above and beyond to impress the king, yet there was no word about a possible appointment to the Kingsguard.” Leiff moved the Elephant piece and Beric's eyes immediately darted back to the board on the table.

“There was,” Thoros gave back and Beric's gaze wandered to him. “Frankly, I think it is for the better that he went home without a white cloak.” He leaned over, almost falling out of the hammock he had fastened between two columns of the wooden pavilion in his attempt at reaching the wine.

“Why would that be better?” Leiff passed Thoros the bottle, then studied the cyvasse board with a thoughtful expression, waiting for Beric to make his next move.

“What did the king say?” Beric looked back to Thoros, his hand hovering over the board with a Heavy Horse. “Nothing Loras should know, I take it?”

Thoros took a pull from the bottle, then closed it and slowly shook his head. “Wouldn't change a thing if he knew,” he said. “But I doubt it would lift his spirits to know that he was between a rock and a hard place all along.” He gave the wine back to Beric and sighed. “While you two were talking to Selmy, Robert gave a piece of his mind to Ser Meryn, reprimanding him for his bad showing in the joust. 'If you weren't sworn for life, I'd replace you with Ser Loras in a heartbeat! Would be a fair trade to boot, the Tyrells steal my brother and I take their son,' Robert told him.” He leaned back in the hammock and gestured for the basket of apples.

Beric put the Heavy Horse back on its original place and handed Thoros an apple. “You're probably right,” he thoughtfully noted. “That doesn't sound like Loras would have found what he hoped for in the Kingsguard.” After brief consideration, he picked up a Rabble piece and moved it toward Leiff's Catapult.

“Looks like you got what you hoped for though.” Thoros took a bite out of his apple and nodded to the messenger approaching the pavilion from afar. “Walks much too slow for bad news,” he added while chewing.

“Lord Beric.” The messenger took a slight bow when he reached the table. “Ser Danyal has completed his vigil and returned from the Sept of Baelor. He awaits you at the gatehouse and says he is ready for departure.”

Beric nodded and got up from the table. “Tell him we're on our way,” he gave back. “And send word to my guards as well.” The messenger hurried away and disappeared through a door into the Red Keep when he reached the end of the cobblestone path. Once he was gone Beric reached into his pocket and pulled out a scroll bearing the seal of the king. He thoughtfully regarded it for a moment, then straightened his back and turned to Thoros. “See? My gut feeling was right,” he said, his voice carrying more relief than Beric intended. “He is committed to the path of redemption and honor.”

Thoros chuckled and heaved himself out of the hammock. “As if you weren't worried he'd stand vigil in the Dragon's Maw Inn instead of the sept,” he gave back and earned a not very convincing reprimanding glare from Beric for the remark.

“I wasn't,” Leiff firmly declared. He closed the cyvasse box after gathering the pieces and storing them in it, then grabbed an apple from the basket and took a hearty bite. “Though, after the raven brought the message from Lannisport, saying Ser Jaime would travel to Highgarden with Lord Tywin's party and not return to King's Landing, I made a wager with Anguy before he left.” He snickered when Beric raised an eyebrow at him. “I said there was a good chance he'd 'get lost' on the Gold Road as soon as Ser Jaime wasn't looking. It's not that I don't trust Danyal, he just doesn't strike me as a man keen on knighthood, you know?”

“And Anguy bet against that?” Thoros snatched the wine from the table, then followed Beric and Leiff down the path. “Frankly, that's not a wager I would have made.”

“He did,” Leiff replied. “He was so certain that he even raised the bet to five silver stags. Guess I have to pay up when we meet him at Highgarden.”

 

﴾ _____________________________________________________________________________________ ﴿

 

The guards were waiting outside the gatehouse when Thoros, Beric and Leiff arrived there. Danyal was not with them, but they spotted him leaning against the wall of the tavern on the corner across the road. Next to him stood a white horse, saddled and ready for the journey ahead, though Danyal himself didn't seem to be in a hurry. He acknowledged Beric with a quick nod, then resumed inspecting a small object in his hand, a brooch perhaps, and finally attached it to his coat.

“Well, he looks like a knight now,” Thoros noted as they crossed the road. He had a point, Danyal had done some shopping in Lannisport and replaced the rather shabby attire from the tourney with a more refined wardrobe. He had worn a beige riding coat, lined with golden edges, the evening before when they had accompanied him to the Sept of Baelor, but the red velvet cloak on his shoulders was new. “That's a good start. And I approve of his choice of colors.”

“Maybe you should ask him for the name of the tailor,” Leiff teasingly replied. “Your cloak is so faded, people will think he is the Red Priest when they see you together.”

 

“Your pardon, sealed by the king,” Beric greeted Danyal, holding the scroll out to him. “Are you ready to leave? We can make it to the White Fawn by nightfall if we...”

“Absolutely not,” Danyal cut him off, stepped away from the wall and took the scroll without looking, then slipped it into his pocket and straightened his back. “I didn't stare at statues all night just to not see things through.” He drew his sword, knelt and presented the weapon, though he didn't respectfully lower his gaze along with the gesture. Irritated, Beric exchanged a quick glance with Thoros and got a slight shrug as only reply. “We're not going anywhere until I've sworn fealty and you accepted my oath,” Danyal sternly continued. “I'm not an idiot, I know how these things work. If I'm not taken into service by some wealthy lord, I'll spend the rest of my days sleeping in hedges, knighthood or not.”

 _Maybe you shouldn't have spend all your money on fancy clothes the moment you were knighted_ , Beric was tempted to answer, but instead he took a deep breath and nodded.

“I, Ser Danyal of the Lion's Den, offer my services to you, Lord Beric Dondarrion of Blackhaven,” Danyal solemnly began, but broke off when he noticed Beric's dumbfounded look.

“That takes some guts,” Thoros said out loud what Beric thought. “You better not tell the Lannisters you chose a name including their precious lion.”

“At least one already knows,” Danyal gave back with a smug smile. “It wasn't my idea, Ser Jaime made the suggestion.”

“Are you sure he wasn't joking?” Thoros inquired and skeptically regarded the brooch, golden and shaped like a lion's head, on Danyal's chest.

“Aye, of course I'm sure.” Danyal sounded somewhat offended at the notion, but explained further before he repeated the oath. “In fact, I got on well with the Kingslayer. Guess a man of his renown is in no position to judge others. He was amused by the crime I stood accused of and told me I did nothing wrong in his eyes. The goldsmith who happened to lose his gemstones in my pockets is known to be careless, he said, and that he deserved a lesson to make him more cautious in the future.” He narrowed his eyes and looked back up to Beric. “Can we continue then? Or do I need to start over?”

Beric sighed and nodded. “Go on, let's get over with this.”

This time, Danyal remembered to lower his gaze, though it gave the impression he simply decided to ignore further interruptions rather than paying respect. “I will shield your back and keep your counsel and give my life for yours if need be. I swear it by the Old Gods, the New Gods, the Lord of the Skies and the Lady of the Waves.”

Beric cleared his throat in attempt at sounding more formal, but the irritation still shone through when he spoke. “And I vow that you shall always have a place by my hearth, and meat and mead at my table. And I pledge to ask no service of you that might bring you dishonor. I swear it by the Old Gods and the New and...” He paused and sighed. “And who else?”

“The Lord of the Skies and the Lady of the Waves,” Danyal repeated. “Don't know if they're still around, but Ser Jaime said a knight should always take pride in his heritage.”

“...and the Lord of the Skies and the Lady of the Waves,” Beric resignedly echoed. “Arise.”

Danyal got up and sheathed his sword, then reached for the reins of his horse. “See, that didn't take long,” he said, suddenly more cheerful. “And about tasks that might bring me dishonor, I don't mind those for the most part.” He laughed at Beric's sour expression and mounted his horse. “Better my hands get dirty than yours, right?”

 

﴾ _____________________________________________________________________________________ ﴿

 

The evening sun had almost set beyond the horizon when they entered the White Fawn Inn, nestled between the tall, ancient trees of the Kingswood. Long ago this had been a water mill, but the small river that once turned the wheels had become merely a gurgling stream over time and the building had been repurposed ever since. The chorus of songbirds had gone quiet and made way for the foreboding calls of nocturnal animals when the party dismounted the horses and led them to the barn.

The common room was as deserted as the Kingsroad, but the innkeeper's jolly mood suggested many guests had employed his hospitality in the past days. Above the counter, a makeshift menu advertised items tailored more to the tastes of traveling nobles than the usual clientele of hunters and woodcutters. Several entries were crossed out, roasted quails and pigeons among them, leaving 'elevated versions' of rustic meals, as the man proudly described the remaining selection. As adventurous as some of the recipes sounded, Leiff's curiosity was instantly piqued. The innkeeper, a stocky, bald man with a large, black mustache, was delighted about speaking to a kindred spirit and invited him on a tour through his culinary imagination, serving samples of everything the menu still had to offer. Beric, feeling less adventurous, ordered a mushroom pie with black pepper and bacon, Thoros chose a baked trout and Danyal initially picked a honey-glazed rabbit, but also tried some of the innkeeper's stranger creations after seeing the samples served to Leiff.

“It's kind of crazy if you think about it,” Danyal said and it didn't sound like he was talking about the caraway-crusted piece of crab he inspected. “Not too long ago I had the prospect of getting acquainted with the dungeons of Casterly Rock looming over my head and hid in the shadows to escape such a fate. Now I'm on the way to the realms' most exalted wedding and wear fancier clothes than the guards who pursued me.” He laughed and reached for his mug. “I wish Francis could see me now!” he proclaimed and toasted to Beric before he took a swig from the ale.

“What happened to him anyway?” Beric inquired. “I thought you frequently traveled together, yet you didn't mention him or his brother at all.”

Danyal's expression briefly darkened, then he scoffed and shrugged. “Ditched me the moment his lord in Pinkmaiden touched his shoulder with a sword and offered him a spot in the garrison of Stone Mill.” He put a piece of crab meat into his mouth and immediately began coughing. “Last I heard Bryn was taken on as a stable boy,” he added, then quickly washed down the crab with more ale.

“It appears you have a habit of falling out with your partners,” Thoros noted.

“I know,” Danyal blithely replied. “It's probably because I can be a bit of a cunt if the mood strikes me.”

“Is that why you were so keen on swearing fealty to me?” Beric furtively regarded him over the edge of his mug. “A bond of honor, so I can't do the same, should I grow weary of you?”

The question apparently amused Danyal a great deal. He smiled an impish smile and pulled a basket with bread closer. “What if that's true?” he asked, looking over to Beric. “You can hardly take the oath back, can you? Reliable partners in crime are hard to come by these days.”

Beric sighed and pushed the bowl of herbed butter Danyal gestured for over the table. “I'm not your 'partner in crime', let's be clear on that. And while we're on the subject of clarification, I can certainly release you from service whenever it suits me without breaking an oath.”

“Old habits die hard,” Danyal gave back and he didn't sound like he was too worried about what he had heard. “I never served any lords, but I'll get used to it, I promise.” He dipped the bread into the creamy butter, then took a bite. “I promise, _my lord_ ,” he earnestly corrected himself while chewing, then he suddenly paused and furrowed his brow in thought. “Speaking of lords, are there customs for such noble weddings? Would it be rude if I showed up without a gift for the couple?”

After exchanging a puzzled glance with Thoros, Beric looked back to Danyal and slightly shrugged. “I don't think they expect gifts from guests they never met,” he said and pushed the empty plate aside to make room for a bowl of wild berries. “But it would certainly make a good impression and they'd appreciate the gesture even if the gift does not meet their taste.”

“Well, I can hardly make a bad impression and dishonor my lord,” Danyal replied with an air of importance. He nonchalantly took some berries from Beric's bowl and regarded him with curious eyes. “Lucky me there's still time to find out what they like and buy a suitable gift on the way. What do you have for them? A castle? A ship? A warhorse, perhaps?”

Beric's expression had soured upon the remark, but now he seemed amused and shook his head in disbelief. “A book,” he said to Danyal's evident surprise. “Renly has an interest in history and the arts and Margaery likes reading to children when she visits orphanages. A collection of legends and folk tales from the Stormlands is something both of them will appreciate.”

“I made candied plums with cinnamon.” Leiff leaned back on the bench and rubbed his stomach while surveying the various empty bowls and plates on the table. “I recall Lady Margaery buying candied plums on the festival at Harvest Hall. Renly said the only way to improve such a delicious treat would be adding another, cinnamon, and Lady Margaery agreed.” After a brief, internal debate with his stomach Leiff took some berries from his own bowl, then pushed the rest toward Danyal. “I found some colored glasses at the tourney. Makes my gift rather fancy, though the shriveled plums look less pleasant than they taste.”

Danyal's eyes wandered to Thoros and found a roguish smile on his face. “Ibbenese gold jewelry with emeralds and jade from the mountains of Norvos.” Beric and Leiff immediately turned to him and stared with bewilderment, not sure if they should believe this incredible claim. Thoros calmly reached into his surcoat and when his hand reemerged, it held a necklace sparkling with gemstones and a matching signet ring showing a stag. “I won the melee, remember?” he noted, amused by the baffled faces of his companions. “I already live in a palace and feast with the king. What good are ten thousand dragons to me? I can as well decorate my friends with shiny trinkets and buy my lord a new horse. You didn't complain about that one.” He shot a wry smile at Beric, stored the treasures back in his chest pocket, then rummaged around in a bag on his belt. “However, as far as Robert is concerned, this is my gift.” He produced a small, ornate flacon and put it in the middle of the table. “A perfume Queen Cersei favored when she was younger. Smells like peaches and Robert tricked Renly with it on his fifteenth name day. Made him drink a whole cup of it under the guise that it was a rare liquor. That memory never ceases to amuse Robert and I'm sure Renly will know this gift is a joke.”

 

﴾ _____________________________________________________________________________________ ﴿

 

The Kingswood came back to life in the first light of the morning. Songbirds chirped in the canopy of the trees, thickets rustled and some of the horses drank from the small, babbling brook. The guards were in the barn, saddling the remaining mounts and leading them out to the Kingsroad where Thoros and Beric waited for their companions.

“This is my favorite inn in all of the realms!” Leiff waved with a stack of parchments when he came outside and went straight for his horse by the bank of the stream. “Otho wrote down some of his recipes for me and I gave him some of mine in return.” He opened a saddlebag and searched through its content, then produced a bit of string, rolled up his scrolls and tied them together.

“You probably did half of the realms a big favor.” Thoros chuckled and glanced at the wooden display by the door, advertising 'elevated cuisine' in bold, white letters. “By the time folks get here on the way back to King's Landing, the wedding feast will have worn off and they'll be glad for a meal less... interesting than anise-coated onions and pies of berries, bacon and chives.”

Leiff playfully pouted and closed the saddlebag after storing his treasure in it. “Was that a slight against my cooking or Otho's?” he asked and slowly walked over.

“It was a compliment, silly,” Thoros replied. “But you know that. After all, even Olenna Tyrell said you have talent and put your barley soup on her granddaughter's wedding menu.”

“So it was a slight against my new friend,” Leiff dryly noted, straightened his back as if he sized Thoros up for a fight.

“You have to admit some of his creations were...” Beric paused when Leiff turned to him with narrowed eyes. “...an acquired taste,” Beric finished the sentence. “But the pie I had was delicious, as was the baked trout Thoros let me try. Clearly, Otho has talent as well and he'll only get better now that you've given him some new ideas.”

Leiff relaxed his posture and laughed. “Some combinations were awful,” he said. “But the bacon-wrapped dates were really tasty and he has a sure feeling for fish and crab.” He thought for a moment and chuckled at Beric's expression. “Well, except the caraway crusting,” Leiff admitted. “That one was perhaps one step too far.” Beric still looked doubtful and Leiff's statement didn't seem to be the reason for that. When Leiff turned around he saw what caused the baffled amusement as it just stepped outside through the White Fawn's door.

“What in the world...?” Beric and Thoros muttered with one voice, too hushed to be heard by the door, but Danyal stopped in his tracks when he noticed their stares. He carried a large pair of antlers that had previously been mounted on the wall behind Otho's counter, a hunting trophy that had drawn attention to the menu.

“You think Lord Renly will like it?” Danyal held the antlers up, providing a better view. “I was thinking about decorating it with bush rose vines. It's not called the Roseroad for nothing, there should be some flowers I can pluck on the way.”

Beric skeptically raised an eyebrow as he watched Danyal store the unwieldy antlers on his horse. “Frankly, Renly and Margaery might actually like that thing. If nothing else, it's probably one of a kind because on the other hand, I can't think of many people who'd bother making it all the way with something so cumbersome in their luggage.” He followed Leiff and Thoros to their horses and took the reins of the one that Thoros had purchased on a whim in King's Landing, its coat a rich, warm brown, the mane shiny and black. “I just hope you didn't 'pluck' it while the innkeeper wasn't looking.”

Danyal wrinkled his nose at the notion and straightened his posture in the saddle. “That would hardly be knightly,” he solemnly gave back. “I purchased it, of course. Told the man it's a gift for Lord Renly and he said he'd be honored to help me out. He still asked a pretty penny for it, but I rather pay a steep price than embarrass my lord.”

“Seems you don't have to worry much about money,” Thoros noted, directing his horse next to Beric's and eyeing up Danyal's velvet cloak as he passed by. “How can you afford fine clothes and fancy antlers? Did the Kingslayer let you keep some of the jewels he was sent to recover?”

“He did not,” Danyal replied, a hint of regret in his voice. “And I knew better than trying to bribe a Lannister with my meager loot. But Ser Jaime didn't exactly keep a close eye on me once the gemstones were back where they supposedly belong. He instructed the Gold Cloaks to take me back to King's Landing, then we parted ways as he wanted to ride with his father's party. And I had the time to see some old friends in the city. Friends who owed me from past endeavors and eagerly paid when they saw a cohort of guards waiting outside.”

 

﴾ _____________________________________________________________________________________ ﴿

 

The closer they came to Highgarden the more populated they found the road and its inns and taverns. For one afternoon, they traveled with Lord Errol's party which had merged with the smaller group lead by Ser Cortney Penrose on the way from Haystack Hall to the Roseroad. In the evening, they split up as Lord Errol decided to stay in an inn, having met Lord Buckler there and finding him to be in a rather generous mood. Beric thought the place was much too crowded and instead suggested seeking out a camping spot near a small lake. It was just an hour farther South and they easily made it there before the last light of the day faded beyond the horizon. However, the place was not as quiet and empty as Beric had hoped. On the contrary, the air was filled with laughter and chatter around a campfire roaring on the clearing. Some men sat by the lake with makeshift fishing rods, others were busy setting up two large tents, one red and blue, the other purple with silver fringes on the curtain.

One of the men sitting by the fire stood up from his log and turned around after someone had directed his attention to the new arrivals, undecidedly remaining on their horses on the road. Lord Edmure Tully, heir to Riverrun, Thoros recognized him in an instant. Going by the banners leaning against the purple tent, he was accompanied by House Mallister and Ser Marq Piper who had shared his table during the tourney.

“Found the Wild Violet Inn too crowded as well?” Lord Edmure laughed and made an inviting gesture toward his camp. “If this crowd suits you better, you're welcome to join us, but I'm afraid I must ask you to catch your own fish.” He shot an amused glance to the guards by the lake. “You'd think a bunch of rivermen would have plenty to share, but as luck has it the bass aren't biting.”

“That's a fair offer,” Beric replied and gave a nod to his guards. “Half the Crownlands and Stormlands are gathered in the Wild Violet. We sooner catch those stubborn fish here than be served an order in the inn before dawn.” He dismounted the horse and signaled his party to follow when he made his way to Lord Edmure's fire where Ser Marq had already filled additional mugs with red wine. “Leiff, see what you can do about those fish,” Beric said when he sat down on a tree trunk and took the drink he was offered.

“Bass or trout, my lord?” Leiff inquired matter-of-factly. “I recall catching both in the past from this lake.”

Beric looked up and noticed a daring spark in Leiff's eyes, he was clearly eager to show off his good fortune with fish. “Trout for me,” Beric replied. “And bass for Lord Edmure. If he so generously shares his fire with us, we can't let the man starve next to it while we feast.”

“Why fish? Why does it always have to be fish?” a not entirely sober Patrek Mallister proclaimed. He had just stepped out of the purple tent, a bottle of wine in each hand, and now staggered toward the crackling fire. “Oh, you're from Seagard, this will taste just like home!” he mocked a presumably much too familiar remark. “Fuck fish! Fuck crabs! Fuck lobsters and oysters and mussels and...”

“Lived in Lannisport for the past year, near the harbor. I've grown a bit tired of seafood there myself,” Danyal dryly interrupted the slurred rant. He poured down his wine in one go and got up from the trunk that served as his chair. “That field over there looks like a good place for hunting rabbits. Maybe they are easier prey than the elusive bass in the lake.”

Stumped by the hands-on suggestion, Patrek thrust the bottles in the hands of his father, disappeared in the tent and then reemerged with a bow. “A comrade in suffering!” he shouted, waving his weapon. “I shall join you in the hunt, then we'll feast and celebrate the taste of the inland together!”

“Who's that?” Lord Edmure inquired as Danyal and Patrek staggered away to the field. “I don't recall seeing him in your party during the tourney, and Lannisport seems a far away place for a marcher lord to have friends.”

“Actually, he's from Sisterton,” Thoros answered since Beric had just raised his mug to drink. “And we met him even farther away from Blackhaven, during a tourney held at Blackbridge two years ago.”

“You attended Lord Marsh's tourney?” Lord Edmure let out an incredulous laughter, almost spitting his wine into the fire. “If you can even call it a 'tourney'... I went with Patrek and Marq right after his cousin Osgar was knighted. Didn't do too bad in the archery contest myself, and Osgar won rat fur mittens in his first joust.”

“I won a comb carved from fishbone,” Beric replied with amusement. “But the long journey was worth it in the end, so I'm not complaining. I not only won a prize much more memorable than a bag of coins, but also a friend.”

Lord Edmure nodded and took another swig from his mug. “That's what I tell Osgar whenever he grumbles about being asked when he'll wear his fancy mittens.” He snickered, then suddenly paused and stared wide-eyed over Beric's shoulder.

“Trout for you and bass for Lord Edmure,” Leiff said as if no other outcome of his fishing efforts was expected.

 

﴾ _____________________________________________________________________________________ ﴿

 

“What a bizarre journey it has been so far.” Danyal sat down on his pile of blankets in Beric's tent, watching Leiff as he stored away his cooking utensils in a bag. “I've worn so many masks since before Robert's Rebellion without second thought, passed myself off as a knight or even a minor lord on occasion, always wary of my fraud being exposed. And now...”

“...you're just you, without any pretending, but with the title you claimed to have?” Thoros finished his sentence, then emptied his mug of wine. “It's funny how things sometimes turn out.”

“No, that's not what strikes me a strange,” Danyal gave back, now sounding more thoughtful. “Ser Marq thinks I'm from Lannisport and even said he recognized it by my accent. I didn't try to fake one this time. The old Lord Mallister placed my origin in the Vale, but seems to think I'm from Ironoaks or Old Anchor. At least he asked if I know Lord Melcolm and Lord Waynwood.” He lay back on his blankets and stared to the ceiling. “Two of the guards said I sound like I've lived in South for a long time. Another asked if I was related to Ser Roger Hogg, saying I resemble the man when he was younger.” He slowly turned his head to look at Beric, sitting on his bed and listening intently. “I've been other people for so long and now I'm not sure I remember who I really am.”

“I've always been me,” Beric said after a short moment of silence. “But I can relate to your situation. Though I never pretended to be someone else, it took me a while to find out who I am.” He hesitated and exchanged a brief glance with Thoros. “A pardon and a title doesn't pay the debt I owe you. Maybe I can make good on you saving my life and save the man you truly are in return.”

 


	39. A Rose By Any Other Name

“I've never attended an event of such importance,” Danyal noted in a hushed voice when the guests poured out of the palatial sept of Highgarden, flocking to a large courtyard surrounded by beds of yellow, orange and golden roses. After the drawn-out ceremony stomachs rumbled and the opulent feast awaited the onslaught on bountiful tables, guarded from the sun by pavilions and parasols. “I snuck into some smaller weddings, landed knights, wealthy merchants, but never something this big.”

“Frankly, you didn't miss much,” Beric gave back with a chuckle. The torrent of people kept flooding around him and Danyal while they waited for familiar faces to wash up on the yard. They had just made in time for the ceremony and hadn't had a chance to greet family and friends until now. “It's not as exciting as it may seem. Feasts, fools and minstrels, polite small talk and if you're lucky there's a joust to pass the time.”

Danyal skeptically looked around and his gaze finally drifted to the village of colorful tents and streaming banners between Highgarden's two innermost walls. “Wouldn't do me any good,” he said, a hint of resignation echoed in his words. “I'm a terrible jouster. After the first tilt I'd still have a lot time left to pass.” He turned back around and let his gaze wander through the crowd, not searching for anyone in particular among the chatting groups. “Don't take this the wrong way, but I'm beginning to wonder if I have what it takes for a honorable life.”

“What do you mean?” Beric regarded him slightly puzzled, then looked around to figure out what had inspired Danyal's remark. “You've already shown that you do. You acted honorably in King's Landing. That proves you have a true desire to change your life.”

“Aye, but determination alone won't get me far.” Danyal gave a brief nod to a group of young nobles, engaged in a boastful discussion about their recent success. “My talents are lies and deception and I prefer daggers over swords in a fight. Neither will serve me well in a tourney or knightly pursuits. I can hardly impress lords and ladies with trickery and veiled threats.”

Beric was about to reply, but he stopped short and did a double-take when he spotted two familiar faces he hadn't expected and was not keen to see. Ser Elyor and Ser Lilias stood a good distance away by a small, fenced grove in the middle of the yard. Apparently, they were waiting for someone as well as they were looking to the main gate of sept. “Swords don't make men honorable,” Beric said, not taking his glare off the Brightfield cousins. “It's the deeds and intentions that matter...” His voice trailed off and his eyes followed Ser Elyor's glance to the sept's gate. The Tyrells were leaving the building; he recognized Loras, accompanied by Lady Satal and his eldest brother Willas, then Garlan joined the group with his wife. They waited for a moment, standing not far from the Brightfields, but none of the Tyrells paid attention to them. When Loras' aunt, Lady Janna, and her husband, Ser Jon Fossoway, reached them, they just continued their way past the grove.

“Leiff, see if you can find Thoros and my father.” Beric finally looked away from the Brightfields and took a deep breath to compose himself. “We better get going before those two dolts see me and remember their grudge. I doubt they have enough manners to not ruin a wedding if they already dare to show up here at all.” Leiff nodded, but before he had even made a single step, a new torrent of people poured out of the sept.

Renly and Margaery, surrounded by a swarm of handmaidens, septas, servants and family members, had stepped through the main gate out onto the yard. Lady Olenna, flanked by her twin guards, walked near them, chatting with Lord Mace Tyrell, his sister Mina and her husband, Lord Paxter Redwyne. She, too, ignored the Brightfields, though they were still waiting by the grove right ahead.

Margaery looked like a queen in her shimmering, white-golden gown, adorned with sparkling gemstones and a train decorated with flowers, long enough that it took eight handmaidens to prevent it from dragging on the ground. Whoever had done her hair had created a true work of art. As playful and natural as the curls looked, it had certainly taken hours to weave rose blossoms and leaves into them. Next to her, Renly had clearly abandoned any hope of reconciling with his royal brother. His coat was green with golden ornaments, resembling Loras' riding coat and going as far as having three golden stags embroidered on the chest, just like Loras' showed three golden roses in this place. Except for this detail, it would have been hard for an uninitiated bystander to tell which half of the couple was born a Tyrell.

While Renly was talking to his grandfather, Lord Eldon Estermont of Greenstone, Margaery had a chat with an man Beric couldn't place at first glance. He looked around fifty and wore azure attire, but Beric couldn't make out a coat of of arms. He went through the houses of the Reach in his head, trying to figure out who it was. Maybe a distant relative of House Redwyne? A knight from Sunhouse? Or perhaps it was Lord Shermer? If Beric remembered correctly their coat of arms was blue and copper and now that he thought about it, he couldn't recall ever meeting the man.

The mystery solved itself when Margaery ended her chat and the wedding procession began breaking up into smaller groups by the grove. The man went over to waiting Brightfield cousins and Beric's baffled gaze followed him. It had to be Lord Brightfield, he realized when the three men left the courtyard together, and Margaery didn't seem bothered at all by their presence at her wedding.

 

“What in the world are they doing here?” Beric inappropriately greeted the bride when Margaery reached him, Leiff and Danyal, then quickly gathered himself. “My apologies, I meant...”

“Oh, don't apologize.” Margaery smiled brightly and shook her head. “I'd be surprised to see them myself after my father banned them from attending any events held at Highgarden last year. But I invited them in the spirit of reconciliation.” She paused and the smile made way for a roguish smirk. “I wouldn't miss the chance to make them watch me marry the Lord Paramount of the Stormlands for anything in the world,” she quietly added. “Lord Brightfield rarely travels, but he could hardly decline an invitation to my wedding. He's a strict man, made worse for his uncouth spawns by past tensions with my father. He'll keep them in line and all they can do is grin and bear it, just like my father made me do for years.” Her gaze wandered to Danyal and her tone immediately shifted when she realized a stranger was listening to her mischievous explanation. “But enough of such unpleasantries!” She laughed and reached for a strand of her hair, plucked a rose blossom from it and gave it to Leiff. “Give this to your lady,” she said. “Dry it in the sun, then it will last a lifetime, just like a good marriage, and remind you that you'll always have friends in sunnier places.” Stumped by the sudden chance of tone, Leiff nodded and took the flower, but before he could even thank Margaery, she returned to Renly and her father, now waiting by the grove where the Brightfields had been before. “You better tell Thoros to hurry,” she called out to Beric. “He's still chatting with your father in the sept and you wouldn't want them to miss the start of the feast!”

“I'll get them,” Leiff quickly offered and went toward the now less crowded gate of the sept when Beric nodded.

“Maybe you're right and there are ways to make use of my talents to increase my renown among people of importance...” Danyal sounded intrigued by the encounter with the bride and her nefarious motives behind the amicable invitation to House Brightfield. “It might just be a matter of being a cunt to the right people and I'm sure you could point me in their direction...” Beric raised an eyebrow and glanced up to Danyal from the corner of his eye, but he didn't quite manage to appear stern and reprimanding. Instead, he seemed amused by this conclusion and didn't want to admit it. “I see,” Danyal dryly noted. “This is a case where my lord won't ask a dishonorable service of his sworn sword, but won't object to it either if I offer it freely.”

“We'll discuss applications of your talents later,” Beric replied, relieved when he saw Leiff return from the sept, followed by Thoros and Lord Ossyn, still engaged in their chat. “Now we should hurry or there won't be much left of the feast.”

 

﴾ _____________________________________________________________________________________ ﴿

 

There was no need to hurry as they found on the way. On the white stone stairs between the terraces a group of servants crept forward at a snail's pace, careful to not topple the enormous pigeon pie they transported to the courtyard. They were still a good distance away when Beric's party arrived there and guests were still being seated or directed to their tables in the shades of the parasols and open pavilions. As soon as Beric set foot on the courtyard, a servant hurried over to take him and his companions to their seats.

“Am I glad I didn't travel with Robert,” Thoros muttered under his breath as he spotted the royal party in the yard's largest pavilion. The reason for his remark was easy to see when Beric looked over. In a rare moment of unison, perhaps the first there had been all year, King Robert and Queen Cersei feigned enjoyment and neither put a whole lot of effort into it. Robert pretended to be engaged in a conversation with Lord Royce while Cersei was talking to her children, turned away from the king. The only one who was apparently in genuine high spirits was her younger brother Tyrion. The Imp had always had a taste for fine wine and food and there was plenty of both on a celebration like this.

The pigeon pie had almost arrived on the lowest part of the stairs when the group reached their table and greeted the guests already seated there. Lady Laenah was talking to Lady Symone and Lady Leona Manderly about Margaery's gown while Ser Aydan and Ser Wylis discussed their wedding gifts, scented candles from Wickenden in the Vale and precious silver coins from the Old Mint of White Harbor. Anguy sat with the other guards on a separate long table and Beric had to look twice to recognize him in the formal attire. The crate of Pentoshi wine, decorated with purple roses, stood on a display along with the other gifts of the party, confirming that Anguy had indeed won their bet.

 

“...it's almost insulting!” Ser Wylis probably meant to whisper, but the disgust in his voice made him speak louder than intended. “And here I thought my gift might not meet the taste of the bridal couple. At least after seeing _this_ I'm less concerned about it.”

“Seeing what?” Thoros casually inquired, hoping his question wouldn't upset Ser Wylis even more. At first, no answer came as both Ser Wylis and Ser Aydan waited for a servant to fill the cups of the new arrivals. Once the servant had left, Ser Aydan leaned closer and subtly nodded to the long display with gifts distant houses had sent.

“A doeskin, nothing else, not even a message,” Aydan quietly said. “That's all Lord Tarly sent. Earlier I heard from the Hightowers that Randyll Tarly is the only lord sworn to House Tyrell who declined the invitation, citing 'pressing matters that cannot not be delayed' for his absence.”

“Those must be some pressing matters indeed,” Lord Ossyn interjected. “There are only few things the Reach finds more important than Lady Margaery's wedding. I briefly spoke to Lord Tyrell before the ceremony began and he was not amused that Tarly sent his young son in his place.”

“What a marvelous pie!” Lady Leona proclaimed, diverting the conversation away from such unpleasant subjects. “If it tastes just half as good as it looks that's all I'll eat today!”

“I hope they didn't fill it with live birds,” Thoros mumbled. “When I saw it for the first time on the royal wedding I thought Westerosi are crazy. Why would I eat a pie after a flock of panicked birds...”

“Don't say it,” Beric tried to cut him off, but he was too late.

“...shit in it?” Thoros calmly finished, conjuring muted chuckles around the table. “It's rather macabre if you think about it. Those poor pigeons, trapped in a prison with the baked meat of their friends.”

“Yet you tell me I'm a grump about weddings.” Beric shot him an amused, reprimanding glance over the edge of his cup before drinking a sip from the sweet hippocras.

“I just have a soft spot for birds and their troubles,” Thoros gave back. Beric looked less amused now, but before he could retort a murmur emerged and drew his attention to Renly. He had left his chair on the long table and was about to open the feast by cutting the pie. A small army of servants stood near him, ready to serve a slice to every guest in a hurry, and the eyes of all guests rested on Renly's knife. But he waited and didn't cut into the pie right away, instead he looked to Margaery who had stood up and stepped in front of the table.

“Before we begin I have a merry announcement,” she addressed the guests with a bright smile. “I thought there was nothing in the world that could make me happier than becoming my beloved Renly's wife. But earlier today, Maester Lomys told me we have twice the reason for celebration!” The crowd held the breath in anticipation and Margaery did not make them wait. “By the time of the next harvest, I will be a mother!” Her smile became even brighter as she put a hand on her belly and the guests broke out in excited applause. “And now let us feast!” Margaery continued. “I'm as hungry as you are and I'll be eating for two!” Now Renly finally cut into the pie, officially starting the feast, and earned more applause from the guests as he released a flock of white doves.

Beric expected another bird joke when Thoros leaned closer and pointedly kept watching Renly cut a slice out of the pie. “Renly must have the biggest dick in the realms if he managed to get Margaery pregnant from Sunspear when she was in Planky Town at the time,” he heard Thoros whisper and had trouble keeping a straight face at that remark.

 

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Once the pigeon pie had been served to all tables, the celebration was finally well underway. The first courses were brought down the stairs from the castle, including the barley soup that had earned Leiff Lady Olenna's praise and a variety of salads and spring greens. While the guests enjoyed the starters, hippocras and sweet summer wine, the entertainment began on the open space in the yard's middle. Butterbumps, Highgarden's fool, had apparently been reminded by Lord Tyrell to not demonstrate his uncanny farting talent during the feast and instead impersonated legendary heroes of the Reach with varying success. After this amusing opening act a group of musicians took over and the first gifts were presented to the bridal couple while servants carried large trays with the next courses down the steps.

Thoros glanced to the king when he followed his companions to the long table and positioned himself strategically behind Ser Wylis, using the man's corpulent frame as cover from His Grace's prying eyes. Though Robert occasionally looked over, he didn't seem too interested in the gifts his brother received. His attention was with the servants on the stairs and the trays with roasts they carried to the yard. Still, caution was in order. Queen Cersei, either less annoyed than her royal husband or better at feigning enjoyment, watched the presentation with mild interest. She was talking to Princess Myrcella, perhaps promising her a wedding even bigger than this, and Thoros had no doubts about where House Lannister stood in the quarrel between Robert and Renly. Lord Tywin had been among the first to bestow his gift upon the couple and though his words were polite and well-chosen, it was easy enough reading between the lines. He had brought a thick, leather-bound tome detailing the history of House Baratheon and despite his claim of remembering Renly's penchant for history, there was a different message hidden within. _Remember who you are and whose blood you share._ It was not written on the pages of Lord Tywin's present, but in King Robert's face, the one time he furtively studied Renly's reaction instead of looking out for the next course. However, Renly, ever the diplomat, didn't deliver the anticipated indignation. He accepted the tome with a warm smile and his brother's mind returned to the roast, perhaps to soothe the mild frustration the lack of outraged had caused.

In his preoccupation with Robert, Thoros noticed too late that Ser Wylis and Lady Leona made their way back to the table, but the king wasn't looking and that gave him time to react. He nonchalantly took cover behind Lord Ossyn, Lady Laenah and Beric, hoping they'd wait for Anguy and Leiff to present their gifts before leaving. “Don't trust your sleight of hand?” Danyal stepped some closer to Thoros, concealing him further from the king's line of sight.

“You're too chivalrous, Ser Danyal,” Thoros quietly gave back with a chuckle and adjusted the jewelry in his sleeve for better access. Lord Ossyn and Lady Laenah stepped aside just moment later, but Beric remained at the table as Margaery was still talking to him about the book he had brought. She was flipping through the pages, delighted at the prospect of reading those tales to her child one day soon. It was exactly the distraction Thoros needed. Even if Robert glanced over, it would seem as if Margaery was still reading the book. Thoros stepped next to Beric, casually rested his hand near the book and shook the ring and necklace out of his sleeve while placing the distinctively shaped perfume flacon in front of Renly. “Your brother told me you acquired a taste for this particular vintage,” he loudly proclaimed while pointedly glancing to the jewelry he had dropped onto book's open page.

Renly's eyes followed the hint and acknowledged the real gift with a subtle nod. “My brother has a good memory for such things,” he firmly answered. “I might share a cup of this delicious peach nectar with him later!” From the corner of his eye, Thoros covertly glanced over to Robert. He seemed amused and was talking to Prince Joffrey, probably telling him about the time he had tricked Renly into drinking the perfume, at least the prince was laughing as well. Relieved, Thoros stepped aside, making way for Danyal and his unwieldy gift. He had indeed decorated it with blossoms and vines after coming across a shrub of pale pink wild roses on his hunt with Patrek Mallister and it only made the transport of the antlers more cumbersome. It bordered on a miracle that he had made to the bridal couple with it and not torn his cloak apart on the thorns. “Now look at this, my dear lady!” There was impish smile on Renly's lips when he took the gift, careful to not hurt his hands and only grasping the wooden shield holding the antlers as he lifted it up. “This will go well with the doeskin Lord Tarly generously had delivered! Thank the gods someone noticed he forgot to send antlers!”

Stumped by the unexpected, excited reaction, Danyal just nodded and stepped back, let Ser Aydan and Lady Symone approach the couple and joined Beric and Thoros, waiting for Anguy and Leiff. Their gifts were well received and provided even further distraction. Anguy had made a pair of twin bows, both with green wraps on the handle, one fashioned to suit the small hands of a lady. While Margaery bent her bow and drew attention by stating she better start practicing soon to fit in with the Stormlands' martial culture, Renly leaned over and opened Leiff's glass of plums, nonchalantly slipped the jewelry into it, then tried the treat. _So much trickery_ , Thoros thought with amusement, and all just because Robert held a grudge with his little brother over a quarrel neither of them could truly explain.

 

﴾ _____________________________________________________________________________________ ﴿

 

The next course, spit-roasted piglets with a sauce of garlic and white wine, already waited on their plates when they returned to their table and servants carried more trays and carafes down the stairs. One by one, small groups from other tables left their seats and presented their gifts. There were many 'aahs' and 'oohs' when Prince Oberyn Martell, accompanied by his paramour and two of his daughters, walked up to the couple with fine robes made of shiny silk. It was rare that the Dornish court bothered with events in other realms and there had been speculation and whispers about the guests from Sunspear all day. Since the feast had begun, Prince Oberyn had sat at Lord Vaith's table and not drawn much attention beyond his mere presence. Now that he stood there, congratulating the couple and bestowing generous gifts upon them, the murmurs became louder and the speculations ran wild.

“Looks like Ser Loras' affection for a Dornish lady has inspired a new spirit of friendship between their realms,” Ser Wylis noted while piling up some more slices of roast on his plate. “Can't say I find that concerning and I'm not just saying that because I live far away.”

“As long as this friendship doesn't make me obsolete, I'm all for the young generations getting along in peace,” Lord Ossyn gave back with a chuckle, then his expression became more serious when his eyes wandered to the royal table. “Though, it seems unlikely His Grace won't see a need for the Boneway to be defended any time soon.”

The king's disgruntled glare didn't change when Lady Olenna had her gift brought forward a little while later. A pony, white with black spots covering its coat and a long, silvery mane, was led to the table and as soon as it came into view, Myrcella and Tommen jumped up in excitement. King Robert leaned closer to his wife and whispered something to her for the first time all day. The queen looked surprised, dropping her indifferent facade for a moment, then regarded Robert as if to make sure it was really him before she nodded and a genuine smile played on her lips.

Gasps and applause welcomed the pony from all directions, such horses were a rare sight across every realm. There was no surefire way of breeding them and it was commonly attributed to sheer luck if one was born to the stock of a breeder. Being so scarce, spotted horses were seen as too valuable to be put at risk in combat or labor and had become a luxurious, living good luck charm for the rich. If such horses were put to work at all, it was for a single day when they pulled the wedding carriage of a wealthy couple. Most spent their lives in lush gardens, entertaining their owners with little tricks and granting them good fortune, one year of luck for each spot on their coat, legend said.

“Fawn, that's its name,” Margaery meanwhile declared, being just as delighted about Olenna's gift as the royal children. “I can't wait to teach our son or daughter how to ride it one day!” The pony, curiously looking around, didn't care about being given a name. It only seemed interested in a basket of fruits and happily nickered when Margaery came closer with two red apples.

After Lord Tyrell and Lord Estermont had handed over their gifts, the high spirits in the gardens reached the lowest point as it was the king's turn to have his present brought to the couple's table. Renly managed to force a smile when he saw the monstrosity of a freshly forged sword, even though his brother had Ser Meryn carry it, the Kingsguard His Grace least respected. But when Robert stood up and addressed him with glee in his voice, Renly's well-practiced smile hid gritted teeth. “I suggest naming it 'Rosecutter',” the king shouted, gesturing toward Highgarden's outer walls. “You might need one to find your way back to Storm's End through this maze!” There was polite laughter from nearby tables, though guests sitting farther away whispered in quiet disbelief at the king's remark. Lord Tyrell gasped, his three sons, sitting next to him, exchanged glowering glances and the faces on the Tyrell table near him looked appalled. Lady Olenna's firm grasp barely held her son back from getting up, instead Lord Tyrell took a deep breath, tugged his sleeve out of her hand and reached for his cup.

“What a splendid idea, Your Grace!” Margaery's quick wit was a blessing now more than ever, and her feigned enthusiasm calmed the situation down a bit. “Those impertinent hedges take our words much too seriously. They grow so strong at times, it takes a fine blade like this to cut them back!”

The king guffawed, sat back down and reached for his wine, though a triumphant grin remained on his face. The cup had barely touched his lips, making clear he was done talking, when the musicians started playing a cheerful tune to lift spirits, but it didn't quite drown out the murmur of the irritated guests.

 

Nobody on the table said a word and even Ser Wylis had stopped eating while the bewildering scene had played out. Thoros exchanged a knowing glance with Beric, then looked over his shoulder for the next course, hoping the servants would hurry and provide them with an innocuous topic for conversation. His silent prayer was answered, either by his god or the servants, as moments later plates with sliced melons and strawberries were served.

“Now look at that, exactly what I'm in the mood for!” Thoros claimed, just to say something and break the uncomfortable silence, not sounding quite as lighthearted as intended.

“I agree, it is such a delightful combination of flavors,” Lady Laneah joined his attempt at getting a conversation going again, just to run out of words and quickly reach for her wine.

“I'm glad strawberries are in season as well,” Symone lamely added, then followed her aunt's example and sipped from her cup.

“Strawberries don't excite me much,” Danyal noted and Beric internally sighed. While it was admirable that Danyal tried helping the conversation along and divert the subject from the brotherly feud, disagreement about the course wasn't much better to brighten the mood. “Melons, on the other hand, do,” Danyal firmly continued. “I don't know what's wrong with the Lannisport merchants, but for some reason they're really fond of importing the ones with green flesh. Why bother with such heavy cargo if it barely has any taste?” He picked up two slices from his plate and held them up to compare the colors, one red, the other one orange. “These are worth shipping, but apparently nobody in Lannisport shares my opinion. The South seems to have more appreciation for good food and that alone was worth leaving the western coast for greener pastures.”

“I'm glad to hear you prefer Southern cuisine,” Lord Ossyn said, sounding pleased with the table talk's new direction. “When Anguy told me about you, I was a little concerned you'd have a hard time adjusting to life at Blackhaven. It's quite a change from the Northern regions, a different culture, different customs and...”

“Life at Blackhaven?” Danyal interjected, slightly puzzled and still undecided which of the two melon slices he should eat first. “I was under the impression I'd travel with Beric.”

“Of course, it's Beric's choice how to employ you,” Lord Ossyn gave back. “But the least a father can do is offer a home to the man who saved his only son's life. One day, winter will come and the season of travels and tourneys will be over. There'll be chambers waiting for you at my keep, though I can't promise you melons.”

Ser Wylis looked up from his plate and chuckled. “You could, but only the green ones,” he said. “The Northern realms import those because they take much longer to spoil. The last shipments before winter last several months and once our lands are frozen over, even the watery, bland taste is a delight.”

 

﴾ _____________________________________________________________________________________ ﴿

 

After a course of spiced duck breast with sprouts, apples and green peppers, the entertainment became the focal point of the celebration and people left their tables to mingle and chat. The musicians had begun playing songs suited for dancing and the first couples took to the open space near their stage. Lord Ossyn and Lady Laenah joined the party of House Swann in their discussion which play they would see later, since a group of mummers had been spotted, but what they would perform had not been announced. Ser Wylis led his wife to the dancefloor, not bothered by his enormous size and lack of grace.

“I'll see if Loras has a moment to talk,” Beric said when he got up from the table, watching the party of House Vaith on the other side of the yard. “I'm sure he'll be busy with the Dornish guests later. He mentioned Lady Satal has never been to Reach and he'll certainly want to show her his home.”

“We'll join you!” Lady Symone grabbed Aydan's arm and pulled him up from the chair. “It's so rare to see Dornish faces in the Vale, and Lady Jiara will be delighted if we can relay some tales from her home.” Aydan shrugged and abandoned the remains of his strawberry cake on the plate, apparently rather indifferent to his wife's suggestion, but willing to go along with it anyway.

Once the three were out of sight, Danyal sighed with resignation and leaned back in his chair. “He was right when he said I didn't miss out by not attending such pompous weddings,” he said to Thoros, the last one still at the table with him. “All the polite small talk makes my head hurt. The events at Blackbridge might seem barbaric in comparison, but they sure are a lot more fun than this.”

Thoros snatched the carafe of hippocras and got up from the table. “Never been fond of dancing and stage plays myself,” he gave back. “But over the years I learned to just grin and bear such events for the sake of politeness. The secret to not going insane with boredom is finding the fellow sufferers and making the best of the situation with them.” His gaze wandered across the yard and the mostly abandoned tables. “Misery loves company and I just spotted someone whose tales you'll find more entertaining,” he added, looking to the pavilion of House Redwyne where Ser Eldrion sat and watched the dancefloor with unveiled boredom.

Danyal got up, grabbed his cup from the table and turned around to see what Thoros meant. “Not that I mind company or the selection of wine over there,” he began when he followed Thoros on his way through the maze of pavilions and tables. “But what makes you think this Southerner will be more entertaining than others?”

“The fact that he isn't a Southerner,” Thoros replied. “You're not the only one who left a northern island behind and washed up on southern shores.”

 

﴾ _____________________________________________________________________________________ ﴿

 

Loras was visibly relieved about Symone and Aydan taking over his obligation and entertaining the guests from Dorne for a while. Neither he nor Lady Satal seemed comfortable with the attention they drew together and Symone wanting to trade Dornish gossip came as a welcome change.

“It's like being at court,” Loras quietly said after pulling Beric aside, away from the orange pavilion. “Whispers and sideglances everywhere and people speak to us like they always mean something else than they say.” He shot a sideglance of his own to Prince Oberyn, still at the table and sampling dishes that had not been on the menu. “Never thought I'd be glad about him showing up. I don't have a clue who even invited him, but I can't say I care about it either. As long as his presence diverts more prying eyes from me, he's my best friend in the world. No offense to you, but...”

“None taken,” Beric replied with a chuckle. “Today you surely need every friend you can get. Your kin watches with eagle's eyes ever since you went to Lord Vaith's table, and a friend from the Dornish court will put their minds at more ease than one from Blackhaven.”

Loras quietly laughed to himself and nodded. “If nothing else, Satal and I found something we have in common,” he said. “We both find Prince Oberyn much more interesting than each other. He's been talking about his travels and it amused both of us how many differences we discovered through those tales as well.” He stopped a servant and took a carafe of hippocras from the tray the man carried, then looked around for a cup. Beric offered his cup to him and Loras began filling it.

“At least you have the same sense of humor then,” Beric said. “Could be worse, like sharing a preference for the same wine and nothing beyond it.”

After pouring down the drink and giving the empty cup back, Loras snickered and refilled it for Beric. “Oh, we have more in common than that.” He glanced to Satal, still talking to Symone and one of Prince Oberyn's daughters. “Together, we can call all the lost hopes and broken dreams in the Seven Kingdoms our treasures! My mind drifts far away when the prince speaks of his years in Essos, fighting in a sellsword company and seeing the world. She gets that dreamy look on her face when he mentions his time in Oldtown and the links he forged in the Citadel.” He took the filled cup Beric hadn't drank from and poured it down himself in one go.

“May I be excused?” Leiff startled Beric, approaching from behind with an apparently urgent matter.

“I don't see why not,” Beric replied, looking around for the reason Leiff was in a hurry, but only saw Loras refilling the cup once more.

“Thank you, my lord.” Leiff was about to leave, but Beric's furtive look made him explain his request. “Iagan will be knighted by Lord Tyrell after the next tourney,” he said. “He hopes to catch the eye of Lord Mullendore's daughter and ask for her hand once he has the title. She's here today, it's his best chance to make an impression, but her brother acts like a mother hen and won't let anyone dance with her.” He looked to the dancefloor and snickered to himself. “But I'm confident I can distract him with tales of my travels, at least long enough for Iagan to ask his would-be lady for a dance.”

“Then don't let him wait,” Beric said and was cut off by Loras before he could add anything else.

“Maybe I should just run off to Essos,” Loras pondered, slurring the words after another cup of hippocras. “I could start my own Free Company, I hear the name 'Third Sons' isn't taken.” He glared at the empty carafe in his hand and slammed it on a nearby table. “But the way my brother stares at me, I should probably dance with my beloved lady first. Give him and everyone else at this fucking wedding more to stare at.” His wandering eyes found a selection of bottles, standing on the table where Prince Oberyn and his paramour were comparing two Arbor wines. “My father will be so proud of me,” Beric heard him say as Loras stomped toward his targets and he quickly caught up to save Prince Oberyn's bottles from the raid.

 

“Ser Loras, I've been looking for you.” Lady Satal didn't sound any more sober than him and had apparently forgotten that Loras and Beric were only a few steps away. She held an empty carafe in one hand and seemed to have the same destination as she eyed an open bottle of white wine on Prince Oberyn's table.

Loras stopped and tore his arm out of Beric's grasp, then regarded her for a moment and blurted out his suggestion without further ado. “We should dance,” he plainly stated, then remembered some manners. “If you'd like to...” He broke off and his eyes followed hers to the alluring bottle the prince had dismissed from his tasting.

“We should dance,” Satal drunkenly echoed without taking her gaze of the wine. “But maybe we could share a drink first, don't you think?”

There was no need for an answer. Like someone had given a silent signal to charge, both moved toward the bottle like vultures descending upon the first cadaver they had seen in weeks. Beric wondered if he should interfere, stop them from drinking more, but it was too late. _At least they look like they're enjoying each other's company this way_ , he thought when Loras and Satal sat down and pulled two empty cups closer.

“What a pleasure to meet Lady Satal!” Symone sounded delighted and Beric swirled around to face her. “Just very shy,” Symone continued. “But I can't blame her, I was once in the same position, a young girl bedazzled by the attention of a promising knight.”

“Aye, she's a lucky woman,” Beric lamely gave back. “Loras has many admirers and I assume it must be overwhelming for the lady he favors.”

“What about your favor?” Symone curiously regarded her cousin and winked. “Has anyone caught your eye yet? At this rate, all your friends will be married one day soon and there won't be a lady left for you.” She laughed when Beric struggled for words and didn't come up with an answer, then she went over to Aydan who waited for her by the dancefloor. “I'll keep my eyes open for you,” she called over her shoulder. “Maybe there's a suitable match here at the wedding, who knows?”

 

﴾ _____________________________________________________________________________________ ﴿

 

“...and that the Reach nobility ate up his act about fighting in the name of the Drowned God makes it all the better!” Danyal laughed and held the pavilion's curtain open for Thoros, then followed him inside and set down the basket with bread, apples and wine in the middle.

“I told you these events are only as dull as you make them.” Thoros let himself fall onto a stack of blankets and cushions and since the late hour called for more comfort, he gestured for the pillows from his bed as well. “There are always some grumps who don't care for dances and plays about mythical kings and their gardens.” He paused and caught the pillows Danyal threw over, added them to his pile and leaned back. “And speaking of kings, I hope Robert didn't see us sneaking away from the yard. I evaded His Grouchiness all day, the last thing I need is him unleashing his discontent over...” A loud noise rumbled outside the pavilion, Thoros jumped up from his makeshift sofa and stared to the curtain. “Guess I just had to jinx it,” he sighed, but a moment later his premonition of who was to come was proven false.

“Where have you been?” he got out and just barely caught Beric before he tripped over Danyal's basket. “And what in the world made you think drinking strongwine was a good idea?” Thoros added when he realized what the scent on Beric's coat was.

“It wasn't my idea,” Beric corrected with an air of drunk importance. “Lord Edmull Turry's friends said I should try it. They all drank it and it would've been rude to decline it.” He swayed to and fro, only Thoros' hand on his shoulder prevented him from falling over, and it seemed he wasn't quite sure where he was. "I hate this," he grumbled, more to himself. "Everything's blurry and spinning and..."

“Maybe you should sit down,” Thoros cut him off, grabbed Beric by the arm and led him to the pillows. “I thought you were with Loras and Aydan. Why were you drinking with Lord Edmure's party instead?” He tried to prop Beric up against the tallest stack of cushions and blankets, but the strongwine claimed victory and Beric slumped over as soon as Thoros let go.

For a moment, Beric just lay there, staring at the basket, probably trying to figure out if there was more than one, then he adjusted his position and rested his head on Thoros' thigh. “We should hide the wine,” he noted. “My father can't see it, he...”

“He has his own tent, my lord,” Thoros calmly informed him, but he leaned forward to push the basket away. “Though I should remind you that we aren't alone in your tent,” he whispered, not sure if Beric was even aware of Danyal's presence.

Beric was. His furtive, if hazy, glare wandered to Danyal, studied him for a while, then Beric shook his head. “Who the fuck cares?” he slurred into his sleeve. “As long as he doesn't tell my father what really happened, I don't mind him.”

Slightly puzzled, Thoros looked down to Beric. “What do you mean?” he inquired. “You don't want your father to know that you got drunk at a wedding? I frankly don't think he'd be too worried at that. He might not be entirely sober himself at this hour. Last I saw him he was toasting to Lord Swann and...” He broke off when Beric tried to shake his head and grumbled something incomprehensible into his sleeve.

“I'm mixing things up,” Beric sighed, frustration echoing in his words. “It just reminded me of my first tourney and felt like it played out like that all over again.” He inched closer and curled himself up next to Thoros, suddenly looking resigned and defeated instead of upset. “I never told you about that, did I?”

“Not that I recall,” Thoros replied. “You told me about opponents you defeated on the lists though. Maybe I just don't remember who first fell to your lance.”

“Ser Yobias Kellington,” Beric mumbled. “But he doesn't have much to do with this cautionary tale.” He opened one eye, regarded Danyal as thoughtfully as his inebriation allowed and apparently came to the conclusion that he still didn't mind him being there. “I defeated him at Amberly during a fairly small tourney and won my first purse there as a knight,” Beric continued. “Surprised me more than anyone, and I found myself surrounded by more seasoned knights. They congratulated me and praised my skill, but not without hinting that I still had much to prove. I was young and naive, and desperate to impress them, so I complied when they said it was custom for the victor to buy the first round. Once the mugs were empty, they suggested I buy a second round as well and a third followed and a fourth one and then I lost count.”

“That doesn't bode well,” Thoros said, just to indicate he was listening intently, and ran his hand through Beric's hair. Though the wine had lowered his inhibitions considerably, it didn't sound like he had an easy time telling this story. He occasionally glanced to Danyal, and perhaps, Thoros thought, Beric regretted broaching the subject in his presence and didn't know how to back out of it now. “You can tell me later, if you prefer to speak of it sober,” he offered, but Beric shook his head right away.

“In my daze I thought I had succeeded and impressed my new friends and that we'd have a good time together for the remainder of the tourney.” Beric paused and hesitated, but he went on when both listeners remained silent. “It probably won't surprise you to hear I was wrong,” he said and sighed. “Somehow I had made it from the table to a tall tree just in time before my stomach rebelled against the wine and... I'm not sure what else they made me drink, brandy, perhaps, or spiced rum. When I returned to them, I told my 'new friends' that I had enough drinks for the night and before I knew it I found myself alone at the table. At first, I thought they went to get drinks and waited a while. But then I noticed the last coins from my purse were gone and that's when I knew my 'new friends' wouldn't come back.”

“Those were some sore losers,” Thoros interjected, but Beric was too lost in his memory to pay attention.

“When my father asked how the tourney went, I only told him about the victory and claimed I gave my purse to a septon for charity on the way home,” he somberly added. “Didn't want him to know I had embarrassed myself and failed to make a respectable first impression as a knight.”

 

“That's your dark secret?” Danyal stared at Beric in disbelief. “A white lie to save face and a dislike for cheap cunts who won't buy their own drinks? Who in the world would hold that against you?”

“I did,” Beric replied. “After my next victory, I made good on that claim and gave my winnings to a sept in the Rainwood.”

“Hm.” Danyal quizzically regarded his curled up lord and thought for a moment. “Then it wasn't even a lie and there's no reason for you to be bothered by it.”

“I'm not bothered by that,” Beric said. “I bother myself, for a different reason. As you can imagine, I developed a dislike for drinking after that and though it's been years, the encounter still haunts me sometimes.” His hand absently played with the fringe of a cushion as he seemed to carefully consider his next words. “I'm not accusing Lord Edmure to be like the men who took advantage of my naivety at that tourney, it's not his fault I'm hung up on the past. But tonight reminded me that I still find it hard to turn down invitations because a part of me still fears I'll find myself alone at the table if I decline.” He swallowed and clumsily wrapped his arm around Thoros, but kept looking to Danyal with hazy eyes. “Frankly, I thought you'd think of me as dull and stuck-up when we met on Blacktyde if I didn't keep up.”

Now Danyal quietly snickered and got up from his cushions. “You really thought I didn't notice you abstained from women and wine at Blackbridge?” He rummaged around in the basket, took out a loaf of bread, then came over and sat down next to Thoros and Beric. “Eat something. It will help you sober up faster. I'll find you some water in the meantime.” He held the bread under Beric's nose, waiting for him to take it, but Beric just skeptically eyed the loaf and huffed when Thoros' hand removed the mysterious object from his field of vision.

“You're not the only keen observer, my lord,” Danyal noted when he got back up. “We both wore a mask at Blackbridge and played along each other's charade. You noticed the missing shells on my shield, I noticed you evaded questions and were not fond of wine.” He went to the curtain and opened it with one hand, grabbing an empty carafe from a trunk with the other. “I knew you were cut from a different cloth all along, because quite frankly, you're a lousy actor. But I assure you I wouldn't have stuck my neck out for you if I thought of you as a pansy or a bore. Drinking alone, that's what's boring. And... If I may speak freely, my lord?”

Beric raised an eyebrow and briefly stopped inspecting the piece of bread Thoros had put in his hand. “Since when are you waiting for permission to speak?” he asked, half amused, half irritated, before resuming his quest.

“Since you had the absurd idea I wouldn't respect you because you struggle with irrational fears like every other man under the sun,” Danyal dryly replied. “If it makes you feel better, I'm terrified of eating cherries. As a boy I dreamt I swallowed a stone and it made a tree grow out of my mouth.” He waited and chuckled to himself when Beric seemed to seriously ponder such dangers and contemplated him with furrowed brow. “I take it permission is granted then?”

“Aye, it is.” Beric nodded, appraisingly compared his piece of bread with the rest of the loaf and finally took a bite out of it.

“I respected the man beneath the mask at Blackbridge, and that hasn't changed. Oath or not, you'll always find me waiting at your table when you come back from puking at trees. And I wouldn't say this to your face when you're sober, but I think you're rather endearing when you're drunk, my lord,” Danyal solemnly said and Thoros quietly snickered when Beric's gaze immediately jumped back to him.

“Permission retracted,” he grumbled, but Danyal had already disappeared through the curtain in search of water.


	40. When The Rain Comes

Outside the window, the blue sky over King's Landing looked like a harried painter had wiped off his brush and abandoned his work, rushed and half-finished. The horizon was littered with jittery, white clouds and the birds above the fields and forest beyond the walls appeared as hazy, dark dots in the distance. From the gardens below the sounds of clanking swords, buzzing arrows and wooden practice weapons thudding against shields reached the window, no wind was blowing and the air shimmered in the stale afternoon heat. Maybe the unintelligible commands came from Gold Cloaks or masters-at-arms, maybe they instructed new recruits for the city's barracks or squires of the Red Keep's housed knights.

Beric paid no attention to the training below the window of Thoros' chambers. His mind was far away, beyond the tattered clouds on the Northern horizon, past the Twins, where the Green Fork of the Trident seeped away into the bogs of the Neck. Before his inner eye, he could still make out the blue and grey banners against the thick, amorphous layers of clouds that obscured the sky in the same dull, faded colors. Shallow fields of fog had still lingered between shrubs and thorny thickets and when the party had set off toward the Kingsroad, in Northern direction, the horses appeared to float on the mist. There had been eight, but only five of them had riders. Three sons of Lord Frey, one of his daughters. And his future grandson-in-law who had taken his dowry half in coins, half in horses. The blue bale of linen in his saddlebag seemed so vivid against the austere surroundings, as if he carried the world's only color into the tristesse of the North.

 

“It doesn't feel right letting him go alone,” Beric had quietly said when the Frey party was out of earshot and he was watching them ride down the road.

“He isn't alone,” Thoros had replied. “I count three knights in the group and they'll meet one more of Frey's sons in White Harbor.”

“I know, it wasn't his choice, Lord Frey insisted his sons accompany him,” Beric sullenly answered. “Still, it doesn't feel right letting him go alone with _them_.”

But Thoros' words, for once, did not make it better. It wasn't about the Freys, the melancholy of the moment seeping through the scrubs along with the fog, the disquieting farewell or the dangers of the empty lands of the North. It was about the end of an era, it was about the long, uncertain roads they'd now travel alone.

 

“You'll put down roots on that window if you keep standing there like a statue.” Thoros' voice pulled Beric back to the here and now in King's Landing, two weeks after Leiff had left with the Freys. “And statues can't ride for Blackhaven tomorrow.” Beric didn't move, but he now observed the gardens instead of the moments that lay behind the ragged shapes of the clouds. A group of guards was trying to direct three ponies through a gate and toward the stables, but the horses were stubborn and had apparently taken a liking to the flowerbeds left and right of the path. Thoros went closer, reached around Beric and set a bowl of oranges down in the windowcase, yet he still didn't get a reaction. “Fine, I gave you a choice,” Thoros muttered under his breath, grabbed Beric around the waist and dragged him away from the window. No reaction, no resistance, not even a grumble. Resigned, Thoros let go and sat down on the bed. “At least pass me the wine?” he asked, glancing to the table with his collection of bottles. To his surprise, this request broke Beric's silent lethargy.

“Which one?” he asked, indifferently looking over the choices lined up on the table.

“Doesn't matter. Any is fine.” Thoros waited until Beric had taken the nearest bottle and brought it over to him, then took the wine when Beric handed it over. “Get out of your head,” he said when he opened it. “Leiff sent a raven as soon as he reached Frostspear Hall, just as he promised. There were no incidents on the road, his mother and siblings are well and his father commended you, saying he's glad you made this life possible for his son. Their guests from the Twins haven't even complained about the accommodations.” Beric nodded, but his gaze returned to the window and the allure of the indifferent clouds outside. “You worry too much, my lord,” Thoros tried again. “Remember what the witch told Leiff in Hag's Mire? His future doesn't look all that grim.”

“Her predictions are not as infallible as you make it out,” Beric replied, absently watching the bowl of oranges now. “She also said I'd take Renly's place, yet when we returned from the wedding Lord Stannis had appointed Randyll Tarly as the new master of law.” Apparently, he decided that he wasn't hungry, as he turned away from the oranges and sat down on the bed. “And the king was rather adamant about Renly doing his duty as Lord Paramount, come what may, and insisted he return to Storm's End at once as soon as the celebration was over.”

Thoros took a pull from the bottle and undecidedly wagged his head. “Aye, he ordered him back to the ancestral castle the third brother thinks should be his. I frankly wouldn't be too surprised if this arrangement doesn't last and Stannis convinces His Grace that both Storm's End and the title should fall to him.”

“That makes Stannis take Renly's place,” Beric gave back and reached for the bottle. “It doesn't make the vision the witch saw come true.” He drank a sip, flinched at the taste and quickly returned it to Thoros. “Besides, I believe she just made up some nebulous nonsense because it amuses her to confuse people seeking her counsel that late in the day.”

“I wouldn't take that for granted,” Thoros said after a brief pause. On one hand, some prediction had been strange or even disturbing and reminding Beric of those instances was the last thing he needed. But on the other hand, the witch had seen a future that had put Leiff at ease and evidence that she had told the truth might comfort Beric's troubled mind as well. “Robert doesn't care for Stannis any more than he cares for Renly. They might stick together for now, but the wind might change once their shared grunt has blown over.” Beric didn't answer, he now studied the bottles still standing on the small table ahead. “The witch was right about Anguy, wasn't she?” Thoros added. “Her visions might just be hazy about more distant events. What she said about Leiff's brother and sisters could be as far in the future as she can see and things that take shape decades from now aren't clearly revealed. Would explain why she was so vague about Loras and only told you something you could have predicted yourself.”

“Fuck predictions.” Beric got up and wandered the few steps to the table, picked a bottle of summerwine, then returned to the bed. “You know why I went to drink with Lord Edmure at Renly's wedding?” he casually asked as he opened his bottle.

“Because you got along well with him and his party when we camped by the Roseroad?” Thoros guessed.

Beric's answer was only an affirmative hum into the bottle, but the glance from the corner of his eye let Thoros know there was more to come. “I did indeed,” Beric confirmed after drinking, evidently finding this wine more to his taste. “There was a remark my cousin made earlier that evening. I doubt she meant much by it, but her words still hit me like a rock. 'At this rate, all your friends will be married one day soon and there won't be a lady left for you', she said.” Beric looked up from studying the label of his bottle and there was a curious calm in his eyes.

 

“She was right, I realized. Things are changing and the scope of it escaped me until she put it into such blunt words. Living from moment to moment made me think I finally had all I wanted, success on the lists, renown in distant realms, the respect of my peers and friends to share my adventures.” He drank another sip, then put the bottle on the bedside table. “And I suddenly felt it all slip through my hands. It seems Loras has made some kind of peace with his situation. He'll spend more time in Dorne to keep up the pretense. King's Landing will be a little emptier when I visit as Renly's duties now lie at Storm's End. Even Anguy's wild youth on the road seem to be over, and I never expected that day to come. I thought I was prepared for Leiff's departure, but...” He paused, snatched the bottle he had dismissed before from Thoros and took a pull from the stronger wine. “Symone's passing remark made me realize that nothing will be the same anymore after this wedding.” Another pause, another pull, then Beric put the bottle aside and looked back to Thoros. “It might have been the last time for a long while that we were all together. And the thought hurt because I also wished her forecast for my future was true.”

Thoros regarded him quizzically, but no explanation followed, Beric's gaze had wandered to the window again. “You think you're expected to follow Leiff's example? Come to see that you had enough adventures for one summer, find a wife and turn your attentions to matters at home?”

Beric sighed and nodded, then leaned against Thoros' shoulder. “I sought out Lord Edmure because his company let me hold onto the past for a little while longer. He and his friends talk about tourneys and travels and make it seem like I'll have all the time in the world. They're all older than me and haven't yet tired of seeking out new adventures. Drinking with them made me forget my own party is dwindling away more and more.” He shot a quick glance to Thoros and suddenly, there was a hint of a smile on his lips. “You're not going to marry and settle down, are you?”

Thoros raised his eyebrows and regarded Beric for a while. “Who do you think I have in mind for that? A whore at Chataya's? I fear I neglected them too much and they won't even remember my name anymore. They'd call the guards if an old lunatic asked for their hand in marriage. Or are you suspecting that I'm secretly plotting against your father, hoping he dissolves his marriage and I get a chance with your mother after all?”

Beric's playful punch against Thoros' shoulder had more force than expected and Thoros laughingly fell back onto the bed. “Or the witch's prediction will come true in a different way. Robert might allow his Myrish brother to wed you, which will put you in line to inherit Storm's End. I should reconsider fighting him over you, his victory might just be the key to my own castle!”

“I don't want Renly's castle or title,” Beric gave back, now amused. “If the witch really saw that in her vision she must have been more drunk than she looked.” He let himself fall backwards onto the bed next to Thoros and angled for summerwine with one hand. “And if her predictions were just drunk ramblings I can't say I would mind. For all I care, Randyll Tarly can keep his seat on the Small Council for all days to come. The less I have to meddle with courtly matters the better.”

“You know, it's probably for the better indeed,” Thoros thoughtfully replied. “There's a storm gathering and Tarly's appointment was the first cloud we saw. Robert told Lord Tyrell without words that he remembers exactly who he faced at Ashford, something he conveniently forgot for many years for the sake of good relations. His memory clearing up all of a sudden is a harbinger for foul weather, if you ask me. Staying out of it all served you well so far and I don't see a reason why that should change.”

“I take it as a 'no' then?” Beric concluded, the question both furtive and playful in tone.

Thoros heaved himself up a bit, leaned over Beric and took back his wine from the bedside table for a pull. “Of course it's a 'no',” he said, sitting up on the bed's edge and regarding Beric with slight reproach for entertaining the possibility of a different answer. “I'll always be with you, no matter where the roads take you. You're my fire, the spark that ignites my lust for adventures all anew day by day. And I'll be your light, I'll shine the way through the world and its wonders and chase away the clouds when your mood gets too dark.”

“Frankly, I could use some of that light right now.” Beric glanced up, still flat on his back, the wine in one hand. “It feels like I'm standing at a crossroad and can't tell which way will take me away from the coming storm.”

“Your father didn't object when Danyal said he assumed he'd travel with you,” Thoros promptly gave back with a wry smile. “Tells me it's fine with him if Lord Sunshine keeps looking for sunnier weather across the realms and beyond for a while.”

The slight frown left Beric's face and made way for a smile when he sat up and put his free arm around Thoros' shoulder. “And that's why I won't go anywhere without you,” he said. “Somehow you always know just the right thing to say.” He raised the summerwine to a toast and leaned his head against Thoros'. “To open roads and open waters.”

“And to open hearts and minds,” Thoros replied.

Their bottles clanked and both drank, savored a foretaste of the future. The blithe days of summer and the lightness of spring, the contemplation of autumn and cold winter nights. Moments of tears and moments of laughter, years side by side, whatever may come.

 


End file.
